AKICOLJ/DW

[If I've asked this before, I'm sorry; I have no memory, y'know...?]

Last year sometime, there were a lot of reviews around for a new book, an SF retelling of The Count of Monte Cristo. At the time I was just outraged and huffy, 'cos that's my pet idea, that is. Now I think maybe I actually want to do something about it, so...

Does anyone know what book it was? 'Cos I cannot remember.

In other newses:

I hate, hate-hate-hate, the idiotilaw that says we can't buy Co-Codamol in quantities higher than 32 pills. That tends to be four blister-sheets of eight; I put one on the living-room table and one on the desk, one by the bed and one in the wash-bag - and suddenly I have no spares for any of the jacket pockets, and I have to go out to another pharmacy and buy another box. Is just stupid, and conspicuously more expensive than the old days when I could buy 'em in hundreds. Grr.

I was out with Harry yesterday (buying him a suit for a Very Important Interview: I seem to have dressed him in grey and black and purple. Um. They may not quite be expecting that. But I think he looks gorgeous...), and he says that maybe a quarter of the population can't metabolise codeine. I think, I hope I must be in the lucky seventy-five; Co-Codamol - coco to its adherents - has always been my analgesic of choice, and this morning when I could barely move for pain I swallowed a big ibuprofen and a couple of teeny-tiny raw codeines and now - well, at least I can move. And type. Of course, I have no evidence that it's not the borufen that makes the difference, and/or indeed the paracetamol in cocos. But to know for sure I'd have to go on a straight codeine regime and see how much I ouchied or otherwise, and I like my cocktails, thanks. I like what works, even if it only works halfway.

In other newses (2):

I love, love-love-love, my mighty blender with its vicious whizzing blades that make most fabulous soups and purees and and and. But.

Above the stainless steel body is the heavy glass goblet. Above the heavy glass goblet is the tough rubberized lid. In the centre of the tough rubberized lid is -

- is this really annoying little plastic thingie, designed to be removable for the addition of new ingredients while the whizzy blades are whizzing. Fine, grand, handy. Except that it will not lock in place, and is always leaping out at the most inconvenient moments. Grr.

I was making soup just now (with roots! root soup! it was going to be 'nip soup, only then I added a couple of carrots to the parsnips and turnip, so I guess it's niprot soup now) when Mac strolled by. I assumed he was heading for the litter tray by the back door, only then he didn't come back and didn't come back, so I thought maybe I ought to check...

Not in the litter tray, no. This was apparently the time to sit in the cupboard and look cute. Don't ask me: I just live here. (Mind, I came back up here to find the keyboard on the floor. Maybe he was hoping that the vision of cuteness would turn aside the hand of retribution?)

Now I shall abandon any thought of working, and go down to fry little dice of apple and bacon in butter, to make croutons for my niprot soup.

Relief arrives by e-mail

So, apparently I have not entirely wasted the last year after all. My US agent has responded enfin to the new novel, and she kinda likes it. The word "brilliant" might have occurred. Also, possibly, "beautifully written".

She does of course have notes for revisions. This is apparently why we keep 'em, these agents, these days: for the editorial function. Used to be that editors edited, but they mostly don't have time any more.

Is okay. I trust my agents, or at least I mostly do what they tell me. I think that's the same thing?

She did also murmur about a change of title, though. I knew she'd do that (it was the least of my worries, but a worry none the less). Nobody understands me. It is the perfect title. *kicks wall sullenly*