Paws for thought

You can consider yourselves lucky -- today I was going to post a rumination on the power of the word 'literature' to make genre writers like myself come over all floppy and inadequate (or rabid and defensive, depending on how the mood takes us), and how a complete lack of intellectualism on my part means planning Book Number The Fifth is turning out to be more of a challenge than any of the previous volumes... But instead I'm going to point you to an interview in The List (Ian Rankin is their guest editor this issue) with me and the ever lovable Mr Allan Guthrie talking all things tartan and noir-ish.

Well, not all things, but some things anyway. Including a gratuitous buttock-grabbing reference. This was the interview I spoke about a wee while ago, and God bless Kirstin Innes for managing to edit out all the whinging and 'oh it's so hard to spend all day making up shite for a living'. They also give Logan a Rebus rating 3/5. "Right profession, but a bit too noble, dashing and heroic" Which is kind of nice. I think...

In other news, I'm going to be available for your public displays of affection this Saturday, when I'll be doing the opening 'Meet The Author' event at the East Ayrshire Book Festival from 19:30 till 21:00 in the Dick Institute*. Expect partial nudity, sexual swearwords, and scenes of an adult nature. And maybe some singing -- haven't decided on that one yet.

It's not the best time to be away from home for us, because Googling Brother moves out of his house on Monday. His own home's not ready for another month, so while he stays with the parents, She Who Must and I are going to be playing host to his 2 cats.

We've been trying to break the news gently to Grendel, but I'm not sure she's actually taking it in. She's going to have to go from 'Worlds Prettiest, But Most Spoiled Cat' to sharing her house and parents with two interlopers. Both of whom are older than her.

Not something we're really looking forward too, but if Tammy can take in her three nieces for months and months, I suppose we should produce a stiff upper lip and do the same with this pair of hairy interlopers. At least we won't have to drive them to school, buy them socks, and pick the lice out of their hair. Oh dear God, I hope not. I don't even know where we could buy cat socks from. Grendel always goes barefoot. Well, barepawed, but you know what I mean.

Family trauma, here we come...

* Tee hee - that sounds rude!

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