Well, I'm back...

I suppose that was one way to read Anathem. And the memoirs of Catherine the Great, and Ink and Steel, and Tom Tackles the Chalet School, and...

Not sure I'd recommend it, though. I not only missed the election party, I missed the whole election! (I had been totally looking forward to TV coverage all night long; I like election specials. But I dislike and resent private companies making profit from the loneliness and isolation of hospital patients, so I was boycotting the pay-as-you-go TV/internet thing, and practising total asceticism and/or indulgence: no newspapers, even, just books. Good books are ... oh, you know. Better.)

Anyway. Am back. Thank you, thank you all for wishes &c. I may have more to say later, but I'm really not supposed to be typing for another week, and my thumb is starting to hurt already, so...

"Back away from the keyboard, Brenchley. Put your hand in the air and back away."

*backs away*

In which variety is not, after all, dead

I think this must be irony, or something. I have spent almost the entirety of the last week in bed; it's, um, ten in the evening; I am finally free of constraints, room-mates and strict nurses. Guess where I'm going...?

I am shattered. And the boys are no fun tonight. They have greeted me duly (Barry has sat on me; Mac has bitten my bad thumb. Twice) and now they are sitting in windows, nudging each other and saying "Coo! Did you see that one? Cool!!" We love fireworks, in this house.

All I need now is nurses to change my sheets daily, tell me to pull my (surgical) socks up and bring me hot coffee and toast in bed. I think I might miss that...