December 15th, 2005

working lady of shallot

book 'em

My appalling hangover yesterday was interrupted by the arrival of a courier bearing a box of books from a certain huge publisher (initials H.C.). Which would be cool if I didn't know that this publisher's representative on earth (or at least in Ireland) always packs these boxes with the sort of books that I actively loathe, even if the publisher is currently publishing lots of books I would like. And so there is now a large box in my sitting room filled with lots of books about serial killers and religious conspiracies and some schmaltzy family sagas. There are also several of those horrible, horrible abused child memoirs, which I consider to be basically porn for people who enjoy other people's misery - the detail seems to be there purely for a weird sort of non-sexual titillation (just how bad can his mother be? How long did she leave him locked up in a cupboard? How many times a day did she beat him?).

So yes, it was a big box of crap, and it's yet another addition to the piles of terrible books that are threatening to take over my house. I know that I'm lucky to get lots of free books, but just think - for every new Sarah Waters novel, there are about 20 Da Vinci Code rip-offs. And of course, then there are the ostentatiously-clever-but-really-kind-of-hollow-and-unpleasant-look-i've-been-in-mcsweeney's novels, which are the sort of thing I might have read and been impressed by in the days before I got sent 20 new books a month and became a lot more intolerant of sub-standard, over-stylised emotionally dead writing.

And now I have to go and read the new Joanna Trollope (whom I hate as well, although Lord knows no one could accuse of her of being ostentatiously clever or over-stylised). Oh woe is me!
fat pony like thunder

(no subject)

Hurrah and huzzah, we have discovered that our local Christmas tree vendor is open late tonight, meaning that Patsington and I will have a tree after all, despite the mysterious disappearance of our fake tree's tripod-like legs (where on earth can they be? I mean, I know I have a habit of putting things away in a "safe place" which I then instantly forget and the precious objects are lost forever, but I can't imagine that even I thought it was a good idea to put the legs of the frigging Christmas tree anywhere but the large box containing the tree and the fairy lights). I feel a Christmassy sense of accomplishment, despite the fact that

(a) we haven't even got the tree yet

(b) I still haven't got a lot of my Christmas presents

(c)I just found out that it's too late to get my proposed present for Patsington shipped here by Christmas, so I will have to come up with another gift idea! Bah!

Speaking of Patsington, he is playing a gig this Sunday evening in Doyles, so do come, fellow Dubliners! Also, his freakish gig diary is up on his fancy new website, but alas all the inverted commas have turned into random symbols, so it looks a bit messy*. But still.

*ETA: This could just be my browser! Apparently it looks fine to some people.
fat pony like thunder

(no subject)


A live tree, no less, that we will plant in the back garden after Christmas. Huzzah! And we managed to untangle the lights and now the tree is all sparkly and shiny and it smells delicious, especially combined with the cinnamon bundles which are gracing its branches. And because we are not cool at all, we sang carols in harmony as we decorated it. I like Christmas.