The Song is Who?

"Based on the books in your collection," the Facebook notification read, " we thought you might like the New York Times best-selling author, Arthur Phillips', new book The Song is You." A quick google-search came up with a book which the New York Times described as "[reading] like a maladroit mash-up of the romantic comedy “Sleepless in Seattle” (..)  and one of those creepy, straight-to-video movies, in which a famous beauty is pursued around the world by an obsessive fan." and which its publisher is trying to promote using the tag-line "Julian Donahue is in love with his iPod."

Some days I wish I were still running my literary blog, so I wouldn't be so out of the loop. Has Facebook moved into target-marketing literary geeks - or am I just super-priviledged? Is Arthur Phillips Spring '09's Jonathan Safran Foer or just a random no-name author whose publisher has paid hefty sums to social networks in a desperate attempt to shift copies? Should I even care enough to blog about this?

Regardless, I am not the reader you are looking for, dear Facebook notification. The book in question sounds absolutely vile and quite unlike anything I'd even consider reading.

In unrelated news, I have contracted the girly version of manflu which means I'm on the verge of dying. In lieu of flowers, please send skeins of Malabrigo or Noro Cashmere Island .. *cough, splutter, cough*

Ouchy-boo-boo.

It's very, very cold outside. This means that the pavements are icy. By 'icy', I mean 'like an ice-skating rink' and, seeing as I'm not blessed with a fantastic sense of balance, I do not ice-skate well. This evening, I fell whilst crossing a lawn to avoid aforementioned icy pavements. I've hurt my wrist and my back. This means I probably won't be blogging (nor knitting!) for a wee while (unless, as now, I can find someone to dictate to *Dave waves hello*).

Wish me luck in preserving my sanity.

Or send snow shoes.

World, Start Making Sense

As I'm writing this I'm wearing:

• underwear
• a t-shirt
• a sweater
• a quilted fleece (Other Half's)
• a pashmina
• trousers
• two pairs of socks
• fleece gloves
• fingerless gloves on top
• and a hat

And I am still cold. I'm half-tempted to fill our hot water-bottle and sneak it under my clothes so I can find some extra heat somewhere. Also, how do I stop my nose from falling off? I am a knitter, for heaven's sake, and Scandinavian to boot, so why can't I get warm?

PS. LOLbrarians. Thanks, Dave.

A Corner of a Foreign Field

A blustery day in Glasgow. We seized the moment when the rain stopped and went into city centre to buy me a cinnamon latte and browse quickly through the bargain offers in Waterstones. This is what passes for normalcy - I could do it because the city was quiet, I had company and I had had a good night's sleep. Yes, I am starting to get cabin fever but the next hospital visit is on Wednesday. Please cross fingers for a solution. In the meantime life goes on.

And life right now equals being crafty with yarn. I have embraced Etsy - although I am slightly disturbed by the fact that you can buy handmade nipple tassels (link not safe for work, obviously) as well as pig ballerina cloth sanitary towels (reusable) (link not safe for your sanity). I have also become a beta tester of Ravelry which is a knitting/crochet community. I feel very middle-aged - particularly as I have been crocheting along to PUPPIES these past few days. Youth, youth, where hast thou gone?

Finally, I'm much amused by The Independent's latest marketing decision: free glossy booklets featuring the Great Poets. Who else would have thought that would entice more people to pick up the newspaper? Who?

Boom-Di-DA-DA-Boom

Let's be positive! My downstairs neighbour is not a hypersensitive man who complains that I 'type too loudly'. He is not a schizophrenic albino who loves Celine Dion and talks to his absent father whilst hiding from the people in the walls. He is not a Norwegian couple who argue until 4am, then shag and who will eventually leave me with two desert rats called Legolas and Gimli. Let's face it, I survived all those people, so why should I be so grumpy about him being a hippie stoner who puts the same prog rock song on repeat until 2.30am.

I must be getting old. Well, I did take up crocheting the other week..

Now, to paraphrase the amazing Flight of the Conchords: it's Hospital Time.