Before you say anything: I know. OK? I thought it was a safe place to stash the body, but when I sobered up... Yeah. Who knew nuns contained so much blood? Much more than postmen, or telesales people...
Anyway, Book Number The Fourth continues to do my head in. (Figuratively. I mean, it's not lurking round the corners in my house, in the dark, ready to leap out and commit violent assault with a golf club, or anything. It'd like to, but I keep it chained to the desk, watched over by a naked picture of Gloria Hunniford. That'll teach it.) Yes I've finally clambered past the halfway point. Hurrah for me, yeah, I'm so special, let's have a party. *ahem*
One thing I've noticed about this book, other than the sudden proliferation of foul language that starts about a third of the way in (the swearometer graph's going to be off the scale on this one, I think) is that Book Number The Fourth really isn't like the other three were to write. In a way this is a good thing: no repeating oneself, it's good to stretch, etc. and suchlike bollocks. In another way this is a pain in the bum, as it's all uncharted territory and therefore a lot more difficult.
Difficult makes my head hurt.
It also makes me all 'stare off into the distance with a slightly constipated look on my face'-ish, worrying about what's coming next and if it's all working, and why there isn't any milk for the tea. She Who Must Be Consulted From Time To Time On Matters Not Involving Horses thinks that's why posting on the old blog is so erratic. There is only room in my little manly brain for one thing at a time, and right now it's so full of nasty things there's no space left for anything else.
Bad Stuart, naughty!
I would have thought having had holes drilled in my head would have let some of the excess stuff out, but it doesn't seem to have. The only plan I can come up with is to start forgetting things as quickly as possible to free up space.
Red wine's good for killing brain cells, isn't it? I can't remember...
Labels: Flesh House, ramble, Whinge