So, four cans of Murphy’s later I awoke from a mid-afternoon nap to late afternoon/early evening cacophony. Bombs, bangs, flashes and crashes. Jesus, I thought the ‘RA were back on the campaign trail there, just for a minute.
Of our feline quartet, the one we call Dude appeared the least upset. Before I’d hit Nod Land he and I had shared a Tesco prawn cocktail and he was still unconcernedly sleeping it off while the soundtrack to Armageddon played out across back gardens up and down the street.
Also, Looks like SheWhoIsNeverWrong is feeling better even if not actually being better. The most obvious clue her scathing running assessment of the failings of this week’s X Factor contestants.
“Look!” she urged, “Just look at him! He looks like a peodo!”
I traded sleep for this? Morpheus, oh Morpheus, were for art thou?
Still, got a tasty book to see me through the next few hours. Went up to the Auld Yin’s earlier in the week and came back with the latest Lee Child. If you’re not familiar with Mr Child, he’s a Brit, living in the states and he writes modern but old-school westerns. Modern in the sense they aren’t really westerns at all. Set in the present, there are no cowboys, no 1800s border towns, saloons, sheriffs and that sort of shit.
Old school in the sense that, despite the absence of the above, they really are westerns. His series character, Jack Reacher, is a tall drifter, an ex-US army MP, who moves from town to town and place to place, fucking up bad guys and getting the girl before moving off into the sunset and the next adventure.
Mr Child’s got a cracking voice and the shiz is terse, laconic, pacey and dry. If you groove to Raymond Chandler and the like, you’ll dig his scene.
And if I’m reading that, at least I’m not thinking of the pile of work, as yet unwritten, that I really should be getting on with. Besides, that what tomorrows are for, right?