(no subject)

One of the handy things about my mind is its user-friendliness. I'll almost certainly never need a psychiatrist because all I need to do is remember to look at any puzzling aspects and I soon work out what's afoot. Last night I finally realised why I always get wistful walking home on spring evenings. I'm in love with them. Now, when I acknowledged this thing of darkness mine love was one of the topics I decreed verboten but frankly, spring evenings aren't reading this and nor are any of their confidantes, if such they have. But that's what it is. I want to not so much have spring evenings as be them. There are a thousand stories in the naked city and at times like this I want to be in all of them, flitting from POV to POV like the omniscient narrator.

On a more mundane though not unrelated note, I've finished Middlesex and it didn't let me down. Even the one development which I had seen coming from the beginning and feared must be executed sappily was handled without a trace of schmaltz.

(no subject)

Whom requires an pint?

edit: owing to the geographical uselessness of half the replies thus far, the ambiguity of two more and the remainder's explicit request not to tempt her, combined with another plan coming coincidentally to my attention, I hereby abandon this plan.