All hail Wordle, rocrastination tool extraordinaire. Feed it some text, and it spits it out looking all prettified. Here’s a chunk from the beginning of Biscuits & Lies:
I’m intrigued, and I’m writing the bloody thing. I invite you to speculate wildly.
Then again, commentfiend Josie has worried me with her lament at my shoddy lack of updates. ‘I can only conclude‘ she says, ‘that you are a) working very, very hard, b) putting your fingers in your ears and going lalalala to the world in general or c) off in another time and space dimension with the Doctor and have forgotten that time is passing for us mere mortals.‘ You lot know me far too well, and will doubtless be able to predict the entire book just from ‘Zogpeople’. (Obviously, it’s (c). Though I did make sure he got me home in time to watch ‘Turn Left’, or there would’ve been trouble. That was a bit good, wasn’t it? And I say this as one of those people who got all sniffy about Catherine Tate last year. ILU, Donna. Now to endure a whole week before the next one…)
Margery Allingham, The Beckoning Lady. Obligatory summer indulgence: reading Campion in the garden, with a very large cup of tea. It’s one of the later ones, but written as a sort of fond cover version of the early fluff: country house murder mystery starring some old familiar faces. Tripled nostalgia. And wondrousness such as this:
‘It’s always jolly frightening when one’s friends fall in that sort of love.’
‘Well, they’re never the same again, are they? A fusion of metals and all that. I mean, love isn’t a cement, it’s a solvent.’
Naturally, it’s Amanda talking sense, while Albert fusses proprietorially to no effect whatsoever. Why she and Campion don’t have the same beloved status as Lord Peter and Harriet Vane baffles me: she might not be as prone to quotation, but she’s essentially a grown-up Petrova Fossil. Who now helps solve mysteries. What’s not to love?
Armpits! Zogpeople! Wheee! I continue to fail mightily at plot structure, but it’ll all come out in the wash, probably. This week, I have been mostly wielding the godlike power to revive the dead. It’s really quite satisfying. I’ve also managed to whittle down my plethora of Simons, but have since discovered two people called Cooper. *rests head wearily on desk*
Eating globe artichoke for the first time in decades, literally; failing to go on holiday; declaring ‘Stranded in the Jungle’ by The Cadets the Best Song Ever (or Best Song of 1956, at the very least).