December 27th, 2004



Seldom have I had a novel demand that I reach the ending so loudly.
Seldom have I had a novel so closely echo feelings I've had.

Much as I loved docbrite's new novel Liquor, the winner for novel I've been most affected by this year is decidedly Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty- which is not surprising: the thing won the damn Booker prize, which seems to invariably go to Saddest British Novel of the Year, though I believe the intention is more Best British Novel of the Year.

And thank god I was as young in the 80s as I was- every report says it was a fucking bleak time to be the sort of grownup that I've become since then.
  • Current Mood
mucha mosaic

Yay and boo. Laundry, the bane and bliss of my existence.

There are not dirty clothes strewn all over my bedroom now. No, there are clean clothes in a semi-orderly heap in one corner (they're being folded and put away, bit by bit).

The bedclothes are all nice and clean. Oddly, lyricagent and wurmfood both seemed mystified when I mentioned that my pillows needed a bath- you'd think I had explained in great detail about the second head I had grown and reached to hike up my shirt while asking if they wanted to see it.

The frustrating part is that it seems that no matter HOW LONG or HOW HOT you tumble pillows for, they're Never Quite Properly Dry.
They're sitting next to the heat outputs on my computer right now, getting a bit drier.

I suppose I will give them another go'round in the dryer tomorrow night when I escape Late Christmas with the 'Rents.
  • Current Music
    'War Pigs'