11pm = 4am
New York is warm, sultry and I do rather suspect that brain is melting out my ears and evaporating. It is 11pm (4am) and I am playing the jetlag defeating game "How Late Can I Remain Awake & Lucid?"
If I start making burbling noises, pleae do not be alarmed.
My cross-Atlantic journey proved boring and uneventful (ie. very pleasant; I do not want things getting exciting at 24,000ft) and I've spent the last two days teak-oiling my parents deck furniture, ripping up ivy, and making a list of everything I accidentally left in London. (One of the things I discovered that I didn't leave behind was sharp-edged and metal and in my hand luggage . . . and has been for at least three other transatlantic/transpacific flights. Consider me coloured a pale shade of concerned.)
- - - -
Have acquired copies of Baker's "Gods & Pawns", CJ Cherryh's "Collected Short Fiction" and Bear's "New Amsterdam", none of which I will have time to read before I set off at 7am tomorrow morning.
Have not acquired "Red Seas Under Red Skies" by Lynch (UK release 21 June). Am mildly peeved. May be good thing, however, as "Lies of Loch Lamora" rocked my socks off to such an extent that I may wear nothing but sandals for the rest of my life. If the sequel is as good, what will I do for footwear?
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. . . . right, time for sleep.
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januaryhat) wrote,
tired
