Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Needful Things

I think its becoming a little obvious that I have a bit of a book addiction. My only regret about shelling out £45 yesterday on reading material was that I didn't buy more...this is on top of the pile unread from the charity shop. Also, the ratio of books in versus the ratio of books out (to charity) if becoming heavily distorted and storage space limited. What's a girl to do? Visit the library?

Here's the rub - I do that too. I read the papers in the library (and Q / NME) on a regular basis. I borrow books and CDs that I have no wish to buy but I'm happy to visit. Try before you buy (because if I like the bloody things I then have to buy them and all their constituent sequels). The library itself is a microcosm of local life which I'm only too happy to observe from my lurking spot in an armchair by the window. If they only sold coffee I'd be there all day; as it is I have to make a detour to Costa to read the Telegraph (Costa for some reason has either super high brow or super low brow - The Sun - in terms of papers for customers. I'll be honest and admit that on low brow days I dip my toes in the murky waters of the tabloids with some guilty relish).

But nothing beats the actual act of choosing, smelling, examining a book for purchase. Nothing beats getting it home and weighing up the promise inside. It doesn't matter that the best book I've read all year came from a charity shop (David Mitchell's Black Swan Green, if you're interested) - it's the thrill of the chase. Maybe I need to get out more. Or be seduced by a dark handsome Spaniard (someone pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease take Rafa's spectacular arm muscles off the telly - they are waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to distracting for this failed author). The books I purchased yesterday hold that same promise. Each was chosen to fulfil a different need - humour in comic form, high fantasy by a tested and trusted author, light hearted biography and naturally the war between heaven and hell, featuring daemons.

Thus we have:

Nemi Vol 1 by Lise Myhre. Fabulous, irreverent take on the 'modern life is rubbish' theme, narrated by a feisty goth girl basically making the same mistakes I made at the same age. have managed to read half of this already, need vol. 2 already. Pah!

For our biog, we have carefully selected a serious tome by the title of 'If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B-Movie Actor'. Bruce Campbell. Elvis impersonator. All round chainsaw wielding hero of the Evil dead movies. Cast staple of Xena: Warrior Princess and close friend of director Sam Raimi. I love this man. I love this book, peppered with pictures and anecdotes, and I'm rather fond of this actor and his humour so this purchase makes GD a very happy doll indeed!

For the fantasy channel we went for good old Robin Hobb, author of the Assassin's Apprentice etc. Good old fashioned fantasy, swords, sandals, dragons, cretins etc. I've only read six of her books, so I'm now starting on the Soldier Son trilogy which I'm a bit wary of, due to poor reviews. But what the hell - I'll give it a spin anyway.

Finally we have the Secret War by MFW Curran (thought I had a lot of initials...). I'll nick the Amazon blurb as this is a new author for me: "For thousands of years a secret war has been fought between Heaven and Hell. Daemons and angels, vampyres and knights, clash for the future of mankind, and as the two sides wage war across the world, innocent people are caught up in the conflict". So there you go!

I'm still finishing The Black House (Stephen King and the other fellow), only 400 pages to go, before I can start properly on the above. This is actually the best King / Straub book I've read in eons, I kinda grew out of him but life's sucked a bit recently and I needed some good old fashioned child disembowling with supernatural elements.

Gods! Life is a peach, even with gummy eyes!

And now it's Costa Time! My cup overfloweth...

GD is: self indulgent, listening to radio 2, snotty and gooey, and a cake monster.

Monday, June 15, 2009

The Eyes Don't Work

The eyes have gone on strike today making typing somewhat of a challenge. This is not really anything to worry about: rather it is a combination of pollen and overindulgence that has rendered them stickily gunged together with fetching yellow crusts. Given that I spent a large proportion of yesterday slathered in sun cream in the back yard with red wine and the weekend papers (gods, my life is just sooo hard, non?) I have no sympathy for myself. Particularly as I've managed to lose my anti-histamine eye drops.

It's a queer day in other respects. I'm used to having Monday as my chill down day without human intervention, but the boy is on holiday working on his dissertation. Whilst not unpleasant to have company, its company that's looking for distractions that can be blamed on me and not on their reluctance to commit words to paper: thus we are heading to Borders in the next thirty minutes for books and coffee indulgence. Plus a substantial amount of people watching through my gummy eyes. Which will frighten small children from ten yards. Bollocks to lying in a dark room with a damp cloth over my eyes - I want book porn!

The credit card is burning, mine eyes are yearning. God, I'm a bloody awful poet and don't I know it?

Enough! Desist, woman! It is enough to look upon the glory of the face of gothic Guisbourne (aka Richard Armitage) and know the pain is worth it (gratuitous hot man shot alert):

GD is: mooching, salivating at the prospect of book excess and coconut cake, repenting red wine and having really fun mental conversations that involve being rescued from wet graveyards by strapping men in black leather trouser. And listening to Bats for Lashes.