Jan. 11th, 2012

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So I slept really badly last night, and I don't like to talk about my dreams, but. I dreamed that doctors had to remove my tongue. And I was tolerably sanguine about it, actually, but. There was the simple upset, that I'd never eat again; and that was balanced by the fact that I'd never have to do a convention panel again; but.

Anyway. Moving on: I have spent the morning sitting here staring at Pandaemonium, and I dunno. *flails*

In rather better news, m'friend Simon Morden has been shortlisted for the Philip K Dick award. So that's something. I shall allow him to buy me a beer next week. I'm good like that.
desperance: (Default)
Oh, fuckety-fuck. I can't stand myself today. I'm going for a walk, 'k?
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Don't nobody go bothering Karen for updates, I'm okay.

Was just talking to her on the phone, went downstairs for a glass of wine - and found the whole house smelly of gas, because the oven had gone out and was oozing noxious ethers.

That's the second or third time recently I've put it on dead low and it's gone out altogether. Tut. Now I think I have a headache, which is the best excuse ever, not to do anything useful. And I have to keep going through to the kitchen, neurotically to check that the oven's still alight.

But I have to go to the kitchen now anyway, because it's the boys' teatime. And they're fine too, since you ask. Apparently ungassed. I don't know if they have headaches, but I don't think they're neurotic and there is apparently nothing wrong with their appetites.
desperance: (Default)
Well, this improved my day...

Money shot:

RAF Morwood has mysteries of its own, and these gradually reveal a story of war and how it is waged, heroism and what it costs. There's a wartime romance, which pulls off the trick of making sense to a modern reader while still making sense by the standards of the 1940s. What makes the ghost story central is an almost meta quality, the way the narrative takes the convention of the haunted house and turns it inside out

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