A blog for people who have already decided how the evening is going. Murder mysteries, horror, cats, blankets, and the firm, polite refusal to go out.
I have now read eleven books set in the same kind of village. By my count the population is 400, the murder rate is one per fortnight, and the only growth industry is the funeral trade. Nobody leaves. Nobody asks why.
Read itNine ways to stay in. All of them involve a body, a blanket, or both.
Newest from every corner of the house.
I have now read eleven books set in the same kind of village. By my count the population is 400, the murder rate is one per fortnight, and the only growth industry is the funeral trade. Nobody leaves. Nobody asks why.
People will ask on Monday what I did at the weekend. Here is the full record, hour by hour, so that I can say 'quite a lot, actually' and have it be documented.
Six cozy mysteries, from a retirement village in Kent to a tea shop in San Francisco, ranked by the only metric that matters when it is raining and you are not leaving the house.
The cat is on the book. She was not on the book a moment ago, and now she is, face down on the open page, exactly where the sentence was. Here is what you can do, which is not much, and how to do it well.
October is here and the house is making its noises. Five horror novels for the season, graded by how far from the hallway you will want to sit while reading them.
The holds came in. All of them. At once. Here is how to get six hardcovers, a paperback and a cat treat home without a second trip, a dropped book, or a conversation with a neighbour.
Reports from the chair. Mostly about not leaving it.
I have now read eleven books set in the same kind of village. By my count the population is 400, the murder rate is one per fortnight, and the only growth industry is the funeral trade. Nobody leaves. Nobody asks why.
People will ask on Monday what I did at the weekend. Here is the full record, hour by hour, so that I can say 'quite a lot, actually' and have it be documented.
I went on a tour of a large old house. I was supposed to admire the plasterwork. Instead I spent two hours trying to work out which door the family doesn't open, and I found it, and the guide was not pleased.
I took a hardcover with a dragon on it onto a train, in daylight, with the cover showing. I was going to be above it. I was not above it. I am writing this from the floor.
Blankets first. Tees last. Dark colours only.
A polite decline, generated on demand. Read it aloud in a flat, tired, entirely pleasant voice.
Thank you for thinking of me. I have plans with a book and they're firm.
One email on Sunday evening. What we read, what we're not leaving the house for, and one thing from the shop. Unsubscribe anytime; we'd do the same.