Malaise continues. I think it's the weather.

Finished?
Carter, The Devil's Feasts
-- the yucky 1840s

E.S. Thomson, Beloved Poison
-- come-by-chance at the library, another of those mysterious floating books with no call number. Also the yuckier 1840s, because in this case we're emptying a church graveyard to make room for railways. But it leads me to wonder: all the characters are slogging through the churchyard which is full of mud, disintegrating bodies, mud that has surrounded disintegrating bodies, and doubtless animal shit as well. And then they come home and scrape their boots on the scraper but they're still up to the ankles in effluvium. Did people never change their disgusting shoes in the middle class? or did they just track mud all over the carpets?

Reading now?
Thief of Time, because I feel the need of a Pratchett.

Otherwise and lackadaisically, Irvine Welsh's Marabou Stork Nightmares, which wikipedia tells me has a shocking ending; Ronia the Robber's Daughter because it's there, and Salzburg's Real happiness : the power of meditation which to date tells me nothing I don't already know but is at least a bit friendlier to those whose knees and and back hurt them.

Next?
No idea. Maybe if/ when I stop feeling headachey I'll start something meaty.