So I’m singing along to the acoustic version of ‘Poker Face’, which is completely wonderful and can be experienced here.

And the cat?

The cat puts his paws over his face, like “Shut up, you tone-deaf HUSSY”.

There’s a lot of love in this room right now.

I’m determined to finish Volume III of Great Expectations by today or tomorrow or the day after, so I can at least start Madame Bovary and the other multitude of books patiently waiting in the bottom of the wardrobe in the box they were delivered in. O virgin novels, I’ll penetrate your pages with my bookmark yet.

Incidently, introducing talk of sex into a boring subject is a sure-fire way to gain my attention. I can’t help feeling that all of Jane Austen’s work would take pride of place in my collection if she’d included a saucy encounter now and then. Unless I learn to make dry social commentary work as an aphrodisiac for me, I doubt Sense and Sensibility is going to be a favourite read. Even imagining Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon DOESN’T WORK. THAT’S HOW BAD AUSTEN IS.

I have shopping to do.

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