Snug as a Bug in a Rug

I've been busy for the last couple of days and fighting off a threatened cold, but today I didn't have anything special to do, which probably explains why the cold marched in and made itself right at home. I made an executive decision to go with the flow and curled up on the sofa under my Auskerry blanket with a small pile of half read books and dedicated my day to getting some of them finished.

First up was Camilla Lackerg's The Drowning and many apologies to her in her absence for incorrectly calling it The Mermaid yesterday. The denouement of the main story was more satisfying than I had dared to expect, but the last few pages after the reveal were incredibly melodramatic; obviously designed to have you gagging for the next book. Personally I'm not. I still find her domestic scenes incredibly arch and cloying and have decided that it can't all be down to the translator.

Next on the list was Diana Wynne-Jones' The Merlin Conspiracy. This was another re-read and very satisfying; she was an excellent writer of fantasy, and although she was marketed as a children's writer, many of her books would be labelled as 'Young Adult' these days. My favourite is Fire and Hemlock, loosely based on the Ballad of Tam Lin. Her Tough Guide to Fantasyland is very very funny and should be required reading for those who overdose on the 3 volume fantasy tome. It should also be required reading for George R R Martin, as he would then realise that however much he declares his writing avoids fantasy cliches, it really doesn't.

I took a couple of breaks in my reading marathon and watched Pointless and Location Location Location. I enjoy Pointless, but worry when I watch it that I might be turning into my parents who had an unbreakable date every weekday with Countdown. I was comforted today by the realisation that I didn't actually watch Pointless yesterday. As for Location Location Location, I do wonder whether there is any point in taking on, as 'clients' for the program, people who declare at the outset that there are only 18 streets in which they are willing to buy a house. Tonight's edition seemed to establish that the answer to that question is No.

And now I'm off to bed with the part read Broken Angels by Richard Montanari; a writer new to me. Alert readers of this blog will have noticed that there has been no mention of  Linklater's Magnus Merriman, last seen being thrown with a flounce into my small suitcase. It has now taken up a reproachful position on the bedside table, roughly where I place my glasses last thing. So far, I am managing to ignore it quite well.