Bradbury

The widow, Mrs Bradbury, walked through the silent rooms.

All of them seemed sterile mockeries of the warm life once shared in this house.

Her husband's study: once stuffed with books and manuscripts, now achingly bereft of all the literature that gave him joy. Vacuumed to within an inch of its life, even the carpet no longer showed the dent of footsteps: his, hers, theirs.

The hall, at least, showed some sign of their life together, even if it was only a plant and a few books.

The idea of someone else living in the house was almost unbearable. But Mrs Bradbury knew that her husband was no longer here. Her husband had gone elsewhere - indeed, he had always been at least halfway elsewhere.

Mrs Bradbury took a final look around the hall. Beautiful, clean, empty.

She sighed, and pushing the front door open, stepped into the carnival.

Her husband, smiling, surrounded by rockets and people and whirligigs, held out his hand to her.

Only you can pick your genre.

A quote from 'Scream', that title, but true. I suppose.

What would I like my genre to be? Not horror, of course, despite my love of the fictional horror. Maybe quirky indie?

Anyway, I made it through a friend's 40th party this weekend, more or less, but I must admit that it was all a little too noisy and crowded, and we left at about 9.30. And then went straight to bed.
We're so rock 'n' roll.

It's Sunday, so we are having a lazy day - naps, sausages for lunch, watching the rugby, drinking a lot of tea, and re-watching some old horror movies. It's only twenty to five now, so in a while I'll wander down to the shop and buy some cream and white wine to make this delicious dijon sauce. I'm defrosting a lump of pork, and I can do potatoes of some kind with it. And I supposed I might find some sort of vegetables to go, too.

I'm also doing a lot of reading - dipping in and out of a somewhat eclectic range of books by Diana Wynne Jones and Barack Obama and Ngaio Marsh. It's a good day. Matt's been playing the Sims, so I got to have a great big fake-offended wifely tizzy because he's made a character that looks like him, and the character has a fake wife that does not look like me! And they have fake children together! OH, THE HORROR!

 

 

I'm trying to remind myself that I have a good life, despite my medical issues that seem so severe right now. I have family and friends and a job I do, actually, rather enjoy. Enough money to keep a roof over my head, and to buy food and other necessities, and enough to be able to spend on distractions. And, more than anything else, I have Matt, and that makes me luckier than any woman has the right to be.

 

After that tweeness, I think I'll leave you with a short "I'm an idiot" story. I was looking out the window, and I saw some birds flying North. And I thought "Oooh, spring must be on its way". And then I realised that they were flying West. And they were seagulls. Which don't migrate. *sigh*

Never Give Up, Never Surrender

So, hey. I have a blog. I sort of just remembered.

How's tricks?

I am feeling very old at the moment, due to having a lot of back pain from my fall on Monday. I have decided to try and counteract the old feeling with being extra uber immature for a bit. I do not know if this is scientific.

So I've been watching a lot of Sci-Fi (a lot, even for me) - Doctor Who, superhero films, Misfits, Prometheus, Warehouse 13 - and reading a lot of cheap steampunky and horror novels. I've been playing games on Rory (my Kindle) and not really doing much else (work and festive days aside).

Oh, and I just bought myself a ring that looks very like a ladygarden, because I thought it was funny.

The thing is, I'm just not feeling right at the moment, and there's not really anything I can put my finger on. I'm in pain, and Noser looks like she's not going to last much longer, and I'm being quite solitary (interaction is so much easier through a computer screen, isn't it?), and I can't upload any damn photos, and I think the rest might just be post-holiday blues, and... and...  I don't want to turn this blog into any more of a whinge-fest than I have already.

So go and read this fascinating article about a man who makes furniture by moulding fungus.

A library in my hand

I love books. I have several thousand books.
We've run out of wall space for bookcases, and have run out of bookcase space (despite double horizontal stacking) for books.

And my best friend, who I'd imagine you all know is my beloved Nettie, and is the best best friend anyone can have, bought me a Kindle.

And I love it.

It can't replace real paper books for me, but it can damn well supplement them.

I have been reading, (free from the Kindle store) for the last three weeks or so, mostly Victorian novels, with a few forays into Edwardian. Thing is, most of these are difficult to get in paper format, either from the library or from a bookshop. But free digital copies? Yes please.

So, a few of the books I've been reading:
The Strange Case of Doctor Jeckyll and Mr Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson, 1886
The Lost World - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1912
The Mysterious Island - Jules Verne, 1878
The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins, 1859
The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, 1890
Little Women - Louisa May Alcott, 1868
Three Men in a Boat - Jerome K Jerome, 1889
The Voyage Out - Virginia Woolf, 1915
Diary of a Nobody - George and Weedon Grossmith, 1892
The Damnation of Theron Ware - Harold Frederic, 1896

There's a lushness of language in novels from this time that nowadays, for better or worse, would sound ridiculous. I find it quite easy to get lost in the language. It's so pretty.

I won't say I've converted to the Kindle - I'm in the middle of three paperbacks as I type this, and spent £25 in a bookshop yesterday - however, I don't see why one can't have the best of both worlds and use both the Kindle and paper books. Because that means more books, and I can never think of that as a bad thing.

PS: Whilst looking up the links for this blog post, I downloaded Little Men and Jo's Boys by Louisa May Alcott, and the entire works of Jerome K Jerome. All for free!

In my head. In my head. Zombie. Zombie. Zombieeeeee.

Spring is sprung, der grass is riz,
I wonder where dem zombies is.

Answer: all over the damn place.

You guys know how much I love zombies. They, by far, freak me out the most of all the monsters.

Werewolves? I am entirely comfortable with the knowledge that humans are just animals.

Vampires? I'm not scared of sexuality or ageing, and you know that's what they're all about - insertion of body parts into other people? Exchange of fluids? Eternal youth? Yeah.

Zombies... it's the mindless mob, the unstopping, unthinking wave of what were once individuals. They're self-sustaining, and they will make you like them.
Now, that's scary.

As Max Brooks put it: "Other monsters may threaten individual humans, but the living dead threaten the entire human race.... Zombies are slate wipers."

Anyway, I think I might have sliiiightly overdosed on zombies in the last week or two.

Zombie bag - used daily.
Zombie novels - 'Feed' and 'Deadline' by Mira Grant, and 'Allison Hewitt is Trapped' by Madeleine Roux.
Zombie films - Night of the Living Dead, Zombieland, Dead Snow.
Zombie TV show - The Walking Dead and Dead Set.
Zombie video games - Dead Island and House of the Dead 2 and 3.

So whilst I'm not thinking there are zombies literally everywhere, I have got myself into the mindset that they're... well... real.

It is, perhaps, the time to take a step back from zombie fiction and read (and watch, and play) something else for a bit. Crime novels, maybe. Disney films. The IT Crowd. LittleBig Planet.

Something to take me out of this mindset.

Having said that, when the zombie apocalypse comes, I am FUCKING READY.

Procrastination

I got up this morning, ready to go tippety tap and write a post.
Unfortunately, I then started watching Agents of Cracked videos (featuring my imaginary boyfriend Dan O'Brien) and, well, that was some time ago.

And I updated my friend's website for her books. And read articles on wikipedia about white blood cells and H. G. Wells and Stevengraphs. And I re-read half an Agatha Christie novel (Third Girl).

If there were an award for procrastination, I'd totally win. I'll be there to receive it in a moment. Just let me finish this one thing...

And writing this blog is something I enjoy doing! Just imagine how bad I am when it comes to boring stuff. Boring to me, I mean. This may well be boring to you. If so, what are you doing reading it? Go outside! Get some fresh air! Ride a donkey!

*ahem*
Anyway, today is 'get rid of all the useless non-fitting clothes that are cluttering up the house and giving me anxiety headaches' day. Or GROATUN-FCTACUTHAGMAH day for short. Hmm. Doesn't 'groatun' sound like a really unpleasant scrotum? But I digress.

I did a purge of clothing recently. And having given it a month or two, I am doing a secondary (and more vicious) purge. Have I worn it in the intervening period? If yes, fine. If no, why not? And if there is no satisfactory reason then out it goes.

I also spent some time on Friday trying on all my pairs of leggings and jeans, and getting rid of ones that were too big, or too small, or had holes in (unless they were meant to). And I managed this without going into a huge depressive body-image spiral when some of them were too small. Go me! I now have about a fifth of what I had, but I know they all fit, which is nice. When Matt wakes up (he looks pretty damn adorable and snuggly in bed, damn him!) I'm going to be going through all my drawers and getting rid of stuff I don't need or want or wear. It's pretty satisfying, actually.

And I may, last night, have looked at the state of our bedroom and called items of clothing "bitches". I am not willing to confirm or deny this.

Ok, I'm desperately trying to find a way to draw this all to a close. Maybe link the ramblings together in some coherent way.
*taps fingers*

Oh, I know! Let's just pretend it's the end of a Thundercats cartoon. Lion-O will say something moral and vaguely condescending, and then we'll all laugh at Snarf whilst only moving our heads.
Yeah, that works. Totally.

Hakuna Matata

I finished By The Pricking Of My Thumbs by Agatha Christie last night, and moved on this morning to Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. I wasn't deliberately finishing the quote, it was just a cool coincidence.

Something Wicked..., by the way, is creepily scary. It has carnival freaks and people that can change you, and horrible repercussions for wishes. And it totally unnerved me - I was finishing it this evening by the light of the lampposts as I was walking home. Don't read creepy books in the dark. Word to the wise.

What else?
My birthday was on Sunday. It was a good birthday. I now have a brand new (well, old) N64 and all my favourite games. And I got to talk to Nettie, Matt made me a cheeseboard, and I had birthday truffles.


The weather's got deliciously chilly. I am making good use of my big warm coat with the fur lining and giant hood. Mmm, snuggly.

We've made a start on the new El Toro Fuerte ABC, too. It was an awfully fun thing to do on a Saturday night, even if all the cool people were out clubbing and whatnot. Don't hold your breath for it, though - we're only about a fifth of the way through, and it's got to be in order!

I also got my blood tests back from the doctor, and it appears (in their words) that I'm normal. So put that in your pipe(s) and smoke it, all you doubters!

So, as it is a nice chilly night, I'm off to make potato and leek soup.
Now, be good while I'm gone, or else.

No time!

I'm lacking a proper update this weekend because we're doing a gigantic de-cluttering of the house and, well...


On the bright side, we've put out bags and bags of junk, filled the recycling boxes to the brim, and this picture shows the massive pile of stuff to go to the charity shop.


We're quite proud of ourselves.

Lush

I've been reading a lot of books recently that feel similar to me. And I'm not sure why they do. Several of them are steampunk or Victorian themed, but I think the real likeness is the lushness of the writing. They're atmospheric, a bit macabre, and detailed in their descriptions.

The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings by Edgar Allan Poe.
Poe has always fascinated me. I heard 'The Raven' at about the age of eleven, and I adored the imagery and scansion.

The Food of the Gods and The Time Machine by H.G. Wells.
Classics of the genre. Despite my distaste for some of Wells' personal social beliefs, the man sure could write. Personally, and I know this is not a generally agreed on opinion, I much prefer The Food of the Gods.

Camera Obscura by Lavie Tidhar.
Oh, so gruesome. There are descriptions of unwanted surgeries, of mutilation, of horrible deaths and intricate plots. And yet... there is warmth and camaraderie, and paper-thin trust. There is a rich world peopled with characters of interest.

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie.
This is one of my favourite of her books (and you know what a huge Christie fan I am). I remember the terror when I first read it. This isn't a crime novel. There is no detective. There is just an island and ten people. And one by one they die.

The Haunting of James Hastings by Christopher Ransom.
This is a bizarre horror novel. It's part supernatural, part psychological. I was given this by a friend at work and, whilst I'm not sure it's one I'd reread, I did blame her the next day when I was exhausted. Because I was up until 1am finishing it, so I had a vague idea what the hell was going on. To be honest, I'm not sure if that's a recommendation or not.

The Coma by Alex Garland.
It's a neat little book - I read it in the time it took me go to and fro between the bus stop and work , and on my smoke breaks, in one day. So maybe 40 minutes of reading in all. It's quite absorbing, and features some lovely little woodcut illustrations by the author's father. It's a good read, but I think it's a little self-absorbed to have been a longer book. At the length it is, it manages to pull it off.

The Illustrated Man and The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury.
The Illustrated Man is my favourite book. The stories are haunting - they whisper around the back of your mind when you're thinking of other things. I remember first reading this book at my grandparents' house. I must have been about eight or nine. I remember sitting absorbed in the magic and the imagery and the worlds woven from words. I know that I must have not understood a lot of the nuances - I still discover new things every time I read it, after all - but it instilled in me a love of science fiction of this particularly atmospheric type. The Martian Chronicles is almost as amazing.

So, tell me of your books!

Aaaaaaaaugust

Well, August was quite a busy month for us. As my anti-mental pills kicked in, we got out and about more.
We went to the zoo for Matt's birthday.










We went to the circus.






We saw Mitch Benn and Phill Jupitus doing stand-up, and I met Neil Gaiman at the Book Festival.


I've got out of touching with blogging (I know. Again, right?), so I'm renewing my vow to myself. Blogging every week from now on. Pinky swear?
Have some birds, because this post is long enough.

30

So, yeah. You guys just may have heard that I turned 30 last weekend. Just perhaps.

I had the best weekend (including Monday off work). 30 is awesome so far!

I was looking forward to being 30 anyway. I read a quote on Marianne Kirby's blog recently which really resonated. I'd been trying to work out how I felt about this birthday, which everyone was so quick to point out was A Big Deal.

The quote runs:

Several years ago, a woman I knew who was turning 40 told me that she was excited about it because the older we get, the more practice we get at our lives. We get better at living because we have simply done more of it.

And BOOM! That was exactly how I was feeling.

I wasn't sad at the 'loss' of my twenties, I wasn't dreading aging. I was (and still am) excited.

Because, whilst my twenties were fun and all, they also involved a lot of ups and downs. And, of the people I know who are comfortable with who they are, who don't feel the need to apologise for being themselves, who are just happier in their lives... well, they're almost all at least in their 30s. And that's because of all the practising, I reckon. I wouldn't go back ten years if you paid me. I'm too excited about the adventure still to come!

Matt made me a card using my favourite ever xkcd strip – the one
that contains a highly valid philosophy of life, in my opinion.

I was allowed to poke my presents the night before, but gently, as I
wasn’t to tear the delicate wrapping paper he’d made by taping
together foil covers from chocolate eyeballs.

In the morning, I shook Matt awake quite early, and he gave me my
presents. I was thrilled with my funky boots, necklace and Sex
Bob-omb t-shirt. He also gave me some books, including one of my
favourite Miss Marple novels (sadly, my previous copy had fallen apart) and a DVD and, to complete my joy, a DS.
Happy Flora.

So we went out for lunch, came home, I had a nap, then Ewan came round to play computer games. And after a bit, Huw and Kirsty joined us, and we reformed our Guitar Hero band.
*does the devil horns*
We (semi) rock!
And then we went out for dinner.

I was having a joint party with my mum, as she didn't get a 60th party, due to Zeph being in hospital. We went to International Starters - a sort of non-Spanish tapas restaurant. It's really nice to go there with a big bunch of people, as everyone shares round their dishes.
My dad and Zeph and Rowenna.

Zeph spent a good proportion of the meal staring at my brother Dave as if he was slightly unnerved. It's Dave's hair, I think.

In fairness, my aunt Hil, my mum and Dave all spent quite a lot of time staring back at him.

Menfolk! Matt, Chris, Zeph and my Uncle Bob.

You can see the mutual wariness in this shot, I think.



Sharing is fun. My aunt Tricia looks on.

It's the chair - I do not have a humpback.

Huw is a startled goat, Kirsty is a leopard.

We had many (well, a couple of) drinks and much food!

And then we all went back to my house, Barnaby. For cake. You can see the one my mother made me in this photo. Sadly not pictured: The one I made her. Where the unset white chocolate ganache made it look rather like it had... man essence on it.

Uncle Huw and Zeph are wearing matching shoes. Awww.

It was all a little too much for the youngest member of the party.


Anyway, it was all awesome, and I had a great time.
I am loving my 30s so far!

Book List - reading and re-reading.

Some of the things I've been reading over the last month.

The Soldier Son trilogy by Robin Hobb. I love Robin Hobb, in a vaguely fangirl-ish sort of way. Her trilogies always follow the same pattern, though. The hero/ine is doing ok. Then something bad happens. Then something else unfortunate happens. Then BONG! A further terrible thing.* This trilogy may well be the most depressing one yet, but she writes so beautifully, and so engagingly, that it doesn't matter. Or rather, it does, in that you are rooting for please, just one good thing to occur to the hero? But they are wonderful because of, as well as despite, that.

*Sorry, Bill Bailey reference.

Dawn of the Dumb by Charlie Brooker - a follow-up to Screen Burn. Ok, a thing you should know - Charlie Brooker is a genius. A misanthropic, hilarious genius. I'm a big fan of his articles for The Guardian, and he has the dubious honour of being one of only two people whose writings have made me guffaw out loud on public transport (the other being Terry Pratchett).

And speaking of Terry Pratchett... Wintersmith. The third? Fourth? time I've read it.

Uglies by Scott Westerfeld. I saw a copy of this book years ago, and saved the title and author name in my mobile. I came across it in a branch of Waterstone's the other day, and bought it immediately. Ok, yes, it's a novel aimed at teenagers. That doesn't, however, mean it's badly written. I've found out it's actually the first of a trilogy, so I'm keen to get hold of the other two novels. I am, in fact, planning to drop in to Waterstone's this afternoon to purchase the second novel, Pretties.

If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor by Bruce Campbell. What can I say about this book? It's an autobiography of Bruce Campbell. Bruce. Frickin'. Campbell. The man is a god! It's actually a fascinating insight into his life, featuring a cubic shitload (totally a real unit of measurement) of photos and an interesting peek into Campbell, Raimi, et al's younger days. I laughed a lot, I learnt new things... it's just awesome.

I've also been re-reading a lot of Agatha Christies - Peril at End House, Murder on the Orient Express, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, The Mystery of the Blue Train, They Came to Baghdad, Murder at the Vicarage... the list goes on and on.

Anyone have any good recommendations for me?

Oh, and I just joined up to dailybooth.com, where I shall be posting photos of me with books. Come see!

And I hope everyone has a great Easter / chocolate day.

William Topaz McGonagall

This week, Matt and I have been exploring the joys of McGonagall.

No, that's not some sort of little-known and ungainly sexual thing. William McGonagall was simply one of the most fascinating poets ever. He is the basis for Terry Pratchett's Nac Mac Feegle bards - the Gonnagles - who can scare off enemies with their terrible poetry.

I already knew his poem 'The Tay Bridge Disaster' (go and read it, then come back. I can wait, and it's totally worth it), but I hadn't realised that he'd written more than 200 poems. This will keep us in comedy gold for weeks!

He was a fascinating man, too. He only 'realised he was a poet' at the age of 52, and was wildly popular due to the consistant crappiness of his poems. Apparently, there's a theory that he knew exactly how bad he was, and his poetry was a form of performance art. Whether he did or he didn't, his work is amazing - the complete lack of scansion and horrific rhymes make his poems a wonder to behold.

A particular favourite of ours is 'The Dundee Flower Show', incorporating such awesome rhymes as:

And there were twenty four roses distinct to be seen
Belonging to James Cocker and Sons Aberdeen
Also some beautiful roses as ever sprang from the earth
And some of them belonging to Dickens & Turnbull Perth

Oh, and the best way to read these is out loud, to some poor victim, whilst holding the classic 'declaiming' pose - one hand on your heart, the other gesticulating wildly.

Now, in our marriage, Matt tends to bring the science and logic side, whereas I bring the creative and mental side. But Matt has totally found his creative niche with this. I can (as we call it) McGonagall, but it takes quite a lot of thinking. Matt effortlessly McGonagalls away, sometimes to quite a worrying extent.

An emailed poem he sent me at work this week:

Oh! Most beautiful Flora to whom I am writing upon this day,
It is with neither a feeling of sorrow nor either with a feeling of dismay,
That I am able to say,
That on this mornings journey from the midway point of Princes Street in Edinburgh to the Gyle,
Nothing did occur of a nature vile.
And so I was not sick of heart nor did it require to be restarted with intervention manual,
For there was seen by me a man out walking nearby to where there used to be a route for buses but is now the future site of tram lines with a spaniel.
And it were that I could'st observe this happening
For I had consum'd not whisky, rum or gin
So remember should you wish to live most happily
Consume not of the strong drink such as whisky, rum, gin or brandy.

I look forward with great joy to hearing of how you do fare
From where you are quite far away over there
And I am curious to hear what it is that for breakfast you did consume
So please do say soon.

And he referred to McGonagall as "the original McGonagall" yesterday. I think I should be worried.

I tell you, Facebook is killing this blog.

I'm a simple sort of person, in more ways than one, and Facebook is killing this blog.

It's not conscious, but my brain says "Why bother with all that? The sentences, and the tippy-tappy, and the making sense, when you can just log in to Facebook, and type "Hieronymus Anonymous is eating some toast" and be done with it?"

But I like blogging. And, although my brain is clearly a lazy, lazy thing, much like a sloth, I am NOT RULED BY IT! *ahem* Although I should point out that I am a bit, as my keyboard set itself to the American configuration months ago, and I can't be bothered to work out how to change it back. I have, instead, invested a lot of time in workarounds. I know, I know. Stupid, right?

So I'm going to try (and probably fail) to post here at least once a week from now on. We'll see how it goes, eh?

This week has sucked. After last week, when Spock died, I thought that this week would be a quiet week of mourning and contemplation. Didn't even get the bloody chance. I had an unbelievably shitty day at work on Tuesday, and ended up with a headache. So I thought, as is my way, that I'd go to Waterstones to buy a book to cheer myself up. My card was refused at the till.

I ended up having to go along to my bank to find out what was going on. The bank tells me it's because I'm in arrears on my old credit card payments. Ok, say I, that's fine. Can I pay them off now? No, says the cashier. You must phone this number and speak to the credit department. Hmm, I say. Ok.
I phone the credit department, who very helpfully tell me that I am £5.81 in arrears, but that 1) I can't pay that off over the phone, 2) I can't set up the standing order that I've been trying to set up for ages over the phone and 3) They can't do anything about my debit card. He gives me a number for the debit department, and lets me loose. I phone the debit department, and end up through to the same place I'd been a moment before. The nice lady also tells me 1-3. She says I need to go back to the branch to deal with it. Yay! Round and round I go!
I go back to the branch the next day.

Luckily, a very, very nice young woman called Magda takes charge, and after a good 30-40 minutes, manages to get my arrears (all £5.81 of it!) paid off, and sets me up a standing order. She tells me that my card will be unblocked first thing the next morning. I want to kiss her, I'm so relieved, but settle for thanking her profusely.

Next morning, I check my bank card. It's still blocked. Ok, I think, but it's 8am. They might just not have got to it yet. I check after work. It's still blocked. I toddle back to the bank. Magda (and her colleague Dawn) take my card, and disappear into a window-lined office, where I can see their reactions as they have to deal with the people on the other end of the phone line. I get bored after a bit, and just sit on their sofa, reading my book. After 40 minutes of arguing, they get my card unblocked, and I go home.

Would it be creepy to make Magda a cake for being so helpful? Dawn could have a bit, too...

Yeah, so that was Thursday. On Friday morning, we awoke to find that Sam had escaped.
We didn't find her until yesterday, when she pootled out from under the back of the fridge, merrily eating mank from the floor. She had got something smudged on her upper lip which gives her a bit of a Hitler moustache. I have been singing the Dad's Army theme tune at her since we found her. She doesn't look amused. But then, nor would Hitler. But then, is WWHD? a sensible thing to start? I suspect the answer would always be "Invade Poland".

Jesus, I'm out of practice in writing this. With the sentences and all.

Ok, I'll see you back here in a week. I'll bring three types of tea and you bring some form of confectionery, ok?

PS: Things that confuse me number 17489262: Mirrors which are nearer than you think, leading me to stare at what I think are two identical Light My Fire blue sporks on my dressing table (there is an innocent reason for it being there, I promise) wondering when Matt bought the second one. Maybe I should just go back to bed.

And this is what we did on a Sunday afternoon...

We decided that our (let's face it - mostly my) books needed a bit of organisation.
Our spare room has as many bookcases as we could squeeze into it, but it's also a bit of a dumping ground.
Before we could start, we had to move: three suitcases, the drum kit from Guitar Hero, a big bag of compost, the two recycling boxes, the laundry basket, the vacuum cleaner, a bedside table, and two chairs.
*deep breath*
The pictures below were taken before we started, just for the sake of comparison. Please excuse the crappy quality of the photos in this post.

We thought we'd start with the science fiction / fantasy section. The bookcase nearest the cupboard had been that to start with, so it still had some Pratchetts, Asimovs, Holts, Rankins et al in it. So we started pulling all the appropriate books from the other stacks and bookcases.

Ignore my uncharacteristically colourful clothing, please...

Top shelf: Classic stuff - Asimov, Bradbury, Wyndham etc, and Tom Holt.
Second shelf: Pratchett, plus a few random books.
Third shelf: Trudy Canavan, Robin Hobb, Tamora Pierce.
Fourth shelf: Robert Rankin, J.K. Rowling, random others.
Bottom shelf: Hardbacks from a number of authors.

Top shelf: Robert Jordan, Jack Chalker, etc.
Second shelf: Lemony Snicket, Dr Who novels, Torchwood novels, Philip Pullman, and one of the Skullduggery Pleasant novels.

There were books everywhere at this point.



Next we put together our crime section (note the tea cup. Constant consumption of tea helped counteract the insidious dust)...

We decided to put most of the TV show tie-in books in the bookcase in the bedroom, as I like to read them when drifting off to sleep, as they don't involve much in the way of thinking. I own way too many Buffy books.

Still books everywhere.








The horror section begins to take shape...

...as do other bookcase loads.


By the end of the afternoon, we'd got to this stage. Not bad, I think.




By the way, do you want to know what was the high point of the afternoon for Matt?
Near the beginning, I was putting the Robert Jordans on the top shelf. Bear in mind that this shelf is higher than my head and also that they are big, heavy books. I was putting three up at the same time when they slipped, and one of them fell, catching me painfully on the collarbone. I yelped, and Matt asked what the matter was.
Me: It attacked me!
Matt: What?
Me: Lord of Chaos attacked me!

Cue Matt laughing for several minutes.
Bloody unsupportive husbands...