Older Fish

Wild Horses - The Rolling Stones

Skidding

Добро пожаловать.

Was I apparently painting the drawing of apparent conclusions in a negative light?

Should we not be too hasty in jumping in to conclusions, regardless how apparent they may be? (Thanks for the welcome, Poppy. Work has been crazy lately.)

Was that a question or a statement on your menopause?

Isn't vegetarianism perpetrating unspeakable acts of cruelty against vegetables?

Don't you know that baked wild snails in garlic butter are delicious?

We won the referendum

Would it not be the best of times and well as the worst of times?

Do you really want to split hairs about the definition of the word definition at a time like this?

Can any human endeavour ever be perfect?

Gaiman is an acquired taste, and not for everyone. When I read American Gods for the first time, I nearly gave up, but I didn't have any other books on that trip so I persevered. Then it started growing on me. The theme is continued in his other works like the Anansi Boys. In order to enjoy his work, you need to entirely give up the grasp on reality. This is fantasy at its best. Oh, and I personally think that Stardust is the best fantasy love story ever written. His collaboration with Sir Terry Pratchett - Good Omens - is another classic.

American Gods is the book that opened my eyes to Neil Gaiman's works. Like most of his works, this story has a story beneath the story and that makes it exceptional. One cannot but feel a twinge of sympathy for the old gods.

Shouldn't we sound him out on that theory?

Me neither, in spite of all the people I have killed. Never have I managed to find true love.

Aren't all things fundamentally interconnected, according to one Svlad Cjelli?

...fill out a requisition form 11B/47-revision 3A-17.4 in triplicate, notarize it, have it approved by the Grand Voxon in order to obtain supplies of food and poetry writing paper for your journey. In the meanwhile, we have planted a secret agent among the humans - the most bureaucratic Hogzed u'Lgrrk is hiding among them, pretending to be an obese registrar of small businesses in an inconspicuous, unimportant area the native life forms call Sheffield, in an equally unimportant country. However, we have intelligence that this being called Google lives in a neighbouring region called the land of Ire (a fitting name for a place indeed), or Ireland, for tax purposes. Your mission is to abduct this Google and bring him here. We will be the ones asking him questions then." The Vogon operatives coughed up an impressive amount of slime as courtesy demanded, and slithered away. In the meanwhile...

...to go to the market and..." Before Annabelle could finish her sentence, an errant interstellar asteroid the size of Mount Everest, traveling at nearly 10% the speed of light smashed in to London, obliterating all life on Earth (except for a few strains of Archea and water bears). The Vogons arrived just 2 hours later, found the job already done for them, filled out B223/7-1R forms in triplicate, and left.

... the people going in and out of the Nobody Inn, in the meanwhile, miles away from where the drama was unfolding at Annabelle's detective agency. Annabelle's instructions had been to photograph Bauble and anyone he might be with, but Bertie was already bored within 5 minutes of getting here, and he had something else on his mind. Well, someone else, to be precise. That someone else was bustling about in her small brownstone house in Copping Close in Croyden, getting ready for the undercover operation Annabelle had sent her on. Her undercover outfit wardrobe (which, one of her ex boyfriends had once embarrasingly mistaken for a "role play" wardrobe), had many choice outfits and Trixie was having a hard time deciding. The school girl outfit was nice, but no one would want to steal a school girl's purse - it would probably contain nothing but old mints and neatly folded pieces of paper with "Mrs. Trent-Doodleworthy" signed all over them. The lady of the night outfit would be too racy for this time of the day. Parking meter attendant, pizza delivery girl, convict, ballerina and equestrian sports outfits were also not suitable. Finally, Trixie settled on the office girl outfit - the one she wore to work everyday. Setting her bag down on the bed, she...

"Oh dear," exclaimed Annabelle. "Looks like the blow to the head has given this man a concussion." "Well, what shall we do we do now? Shall I put him out of his misery?" asked Harriet, looking meaningfully at the Heckler & Koch. "Well, you should," encouraged the reporter Justin Case. "I already told my editor that you murdered a copper, so... umm, would you be so kind?" "Oh you poor man," Annabelle cradled PC Dibble's head. "Do you remember your name?" "My name? My name... umm? Where am I anyway? Who are you?" "Oh dear, this is worse than I thought. Harriet, get the car ready. We can't take PC Dibble to a hospital - there will be a scandal, and Gus will know exactly who we are. I know just the place where PC Dibble can be nursed back to health." "And where is that?" asked Harriet and Justin simultaneously. "My friend Carrie Oakey is a nurse, and she lives in Fingringhoe in Essex. That's where we will take PC Dibble. I will drive him. Harriet, you bring the officer's car and bring this man with you," commanded Annabelle, pointing at the reporter. "It's time we go underground, so that...

Weed

...that we don't tolerate that kind of intrusion, and..." Before she could finish, the reporter spotted PC Dibble, still lying on the ground, his hands clutching his chest (while he had been pouring his heart out to Annabelle) with the red stain showing through. "You shot a police officer!?" the clickety clack of the camera started even before Harriett could stammer out an answer. "Get it all on film, Jenkins, while I call the editor to...