Dusting of snow, no more, but cold. Stayed in and people came to me: my CDs of The Marriage of Figaro a day early, my wine order, and my bro bringing me road salt. I'd hoped he might stay for a chat- he has a cell phone and calls to him are a frustrating garbly gabble; how he ever managed to do business on it I can't imagine- but my s-i-l needed beer toot sweet for something she was cooking so off he went to, I hope, Loblaws and not the beer store farther away. Gather he's suffering winter melancholy: stuck now in their tiny condo with no restaurants to go to and few places to visit. Granted this is the guy who lived in a bachelor apartment for fifteen years, back then he could leave it at will. Have suggested they transfer to a larger condo in the building now that rents are plummeting and owners are desperate for tenants, but the trauma of moving out last January may still be with them.

Finished?

An Ian Rankin thriller, one of three he wrote. Mindless fun and no sodden coppers chasing Edinburgh gangsters, thank god.

And now?

The Dark Archive, large chunks of which I'd either forgotten or weren't there first pass through.

Next?

Pursuit of the Millennium is going nowhere. I want a big thick book, default reading, and am oh so strongly tempted to see if I can still read Ulysses. I had no trouble with it in my twenties but that was before the net did its thing to my brain, and everyone says it's unreadable, and god knows I couldn't get anywhere with Flann O'Brian because who cares about his wittering Irishmen? Joyce may much much more of the same, and life is short...