My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

There’s probably a sad cockatoo, sitting in a sad gum tree, missing his morning tea.

I know, don’t feed the birds, but that ship had sailed (I didn’t teach him how to rattle a door knob, or the joys of biscuits) but I’d been working home/being home a lot lately, and, well, I miss that. I miss the company. And, he, no doubt, misses the free feed.

The possum is his fine frisky self again, in case you were wondering. Something must have been in fruit just that little bit too far, as there were many, many walks of shame in the morning (most spectacularly on 25 December, I swear the wee rascal was out gorging himself on the ‘reindeer carrots’ a local supermarket had insisted on marketing). Had to hit him with the Chris Pine last night, because he was being really thumpity bumpity noisy. Yep, the infamous ‘I Will survive’ clip. I did warn him. I wasn’t messing about. Did the trick though, one possum free night (thank you, Chris, keep rocking).

So, what did I do on my not-holiday? (Well, it should have been sick leave but we’re having yet another effing restructure so I took it as rec leave instead, because yikes). Not a lot, truth be told. A lot of sweating into the couch (thanks, month-long heatwave), not a lot of fic writing as hoped (too much headache, but no doubt the universe approves, even though my muse is ever so chatty, and foul-mouthed, and I love him, the impatient little cranky-pants).

Mainly, as it was too hot for dvds (dammit) or laptops (and Himself had hoovered up all the bandwidth anyways) I was reading books, and old favourites, as I remembered the last time I’d hurt my head this badly, it lasted for ten years, and most of what I’m hitting now is from that time, when I used to hang off my bed upside down because the light was better and I couldn’t bear to have my head touch a pillow. Douglas Adams kept me halfway sane then, so I asked it of him again.

I know some folks frown at me re-reading favourite books, to which I say, firstly, favourite and old familiar friend of comfort. Secondly, you can never read the same book twice, the way the old saying goes you can never enter the same river twice. I am not twelve or fourteen or fifteen or whatever anymore (oh, so not), so I’m not the same person, so I’m reading different things, taking different meanings, getting jokes and references that floated past me before, by way of being an ignorant, untravelled child (at least I know what a Pizza Express is now).

So I read a couple of Dirk Gently books, mainly because I was excited by the new series and I adore Samuel Barnett (such a sweetie at the NT stage door that time) but it left me cold. So, back to the books. Which made me wonder why so many books I’m reading have Thor in them, just because, often for no really adequately explained reason, and is it because I was born on his day, I really have a thing for Norse gods (don’t answer that) or is he popping up in my books like a viral meme and I can expect the Asgard boys at the Netherfield ball the next time I crack open Pride and Prejudice?

Also, why do Sherlock, Doctor Who and Lucifer all feature extensive quotes from the Dirk Gently books, but of the actual Dirk Gently series, nada? Just curious. It’s the sort of question best put to Dirk himself really, I’m sure it’s all connected, somehow.

Also been hitting the Le Carre (which makes my post US election Twitter even more scary, since Our Kind of Traitor is very, shall we say, foretelling). And the Agatha, because nothing is as cosy as a nice murder or three. Does anyone ever wonder that Dame Agatha spent most of her time on train trips, at dinner parties or faffing about on her husband’s archaeological digs thinking up exotic ways to kill people? Just asking.

Imagine sitting across the train carriage from Agatha, and her beady eye falls upon you, and you just know she’s measuring you for a coffin. I, of course, would never do that.

Articles of interest from the Interwebs: https://plus.google.com/u/0/113197665355692280218/posts