In which the last day of the year is given a slap on the bottom

As the clock ticks down to zero hour and the old year prepares to clutch frantically at its chest complaining of numbness in the left arm and a taste of copper in its mouth, it's traditional to do one of those 'year roundup best of thingies' post. Soon 2007 will swoop down like a carrion crow upon the fresh corpse of the old year, eating its eyes and stripping the flesh from its skull, and asking if anyone has any mustard to go with the nose.

So without further ado, Halfhead is proud to presents yet another list:

Good stuff what did happen in 2006

1. Books
   • Finally got round to reading J Rickards Esq.'s THE TOUCH OF GHOSTS. I have to say that John may be small and a bit molluscy, but he does write a damn fine crime novel. Not only that, he seems to be getting better with every book. I've not got my hands on his DARKNESS INSIDE yet (oo-er missus) but I'm expecting very big things of it.
   
   
   • THREADS OF MALICE by Tamara Siler Jones. I actually read this one twice this year, which is pretty unusual for me. But when I visited Tammy in Iowa she let me into a few secrets about what's up ahead for Dubric and his merry band, so I had to go back and read it again. And now that I know what's going to happen, I can see how well it's all been set up. Because Tammy's books have a fantasy setting they get lumped in with all the sword and sorcery stuff, but I wouldn't say they're fantasy novels: they're dark, and sometimes very violent, serial killer thrillers that just happen to be set in a world where magic is real. They should be given the prominence they deserve -- in mainstream crime fiction.
   
   
   • FIRST DROP by Zoë Sharp. I kinda screwed this one up for myself -- I had it down with me to read at Harrogate, and Zoë was one of the first people I saw when I went down to check out the bar.
     "Hello," says me, "I've got one of your books on the go right now."
     "Really?" she says, with a smile, "Which one?"
     "Last Drop."
     Small pause. "You mean First Drop."
     Another pause, this time with heavy overtones of embarrassment. "I'll just..." Stuart points at the bar. "Ehm... yes." And leaves.
     But I have to say that embarrassing encounters with the author aside, it's a very good book. One of her characters is a whiny, pain in the arse teenager, but Zoë actually manages to make the spoilt little twerp likeable. No mean task.
   
   
   • THE MERMAIDS SINGING by Saint Val of McDermid. I've read a lot of Val's work, so I have no idea why it took me so long to get round to this one. Lovely book, very dark and claustrophobic. I have to say that it's my favourite of hers to date. I can see why the TV people beat a path to her door for the Tony Hill series (even if it is named after WIRE IN THE BLOOD).
   
   
   • TWO WAY SPLIT and HARD MAN by Allan Guthrie. I've already banged on about how good these two are, but to recap: brilliant, funny and twisted, much like their author. Only less like a hamster.
   
   
   • LIFELESS by Captain Mark Buggerlugs Billingham. I have to admit that this wasn't what I was expecting when I opened it -- I was looking forward to a nice little crime caper with some murder and gratuitous curry consumption, but this took the Tom Thorne series in a completely different direction. In some ways it's more of a character study of Thorne than a traditional crime novel, and it WORKS. Damn his girly goatee beard: not only can the man write, he's not afraid to take chances with his books.


2. Things
   • Iowa -- ten days eating too much American food, drinking not enough American beer (it was too hot for alcohol), learning to shoot soya beans and chest of drawers filled with hornets, hanging out with Tammy, Bill, Rick, and the Kid. They even laid on an episode of 'Creepy Stalker Boyfriend' for me. It was a classic.
   
   
   • My mini tour of the US. Strange, and eye-opening, with a completely unnecessary demonstration of just how bloody awful American immigration can be at Chicago O'Hare -- now officially, the worst airport in the world. But I did get to meet the Clan Jordan.
   
   
   • Harrogate Crime Festival. A bar, beer and lots of crime writers and readers: what could possibly be more fun?
   
   
   • Not having to take any more anti-bloody-biotics.
   
   
   • Seeing my editor Sarah do a little happy Snoopy dance when she found out DYING LIGHT had somehow made the Sunday Times BS list.

As for next year, I already have a couple of resolutions in mind, top of which is 'READ MORE BLOODY BOOKS!!!' And maybe take the occasional afternoon nap. Have to keep my strength up for all that writing after all.

Have a good one!

In which our bearded protagonist finds himself suddenly unemployed.

That's right: yesterday, paid employment and I finally parted company. My last day at INoGITCH wasn't exactly what I'd been expecting, but it pretty much summed up my time there, so I shouldn't be surprised: way too much work and not enough time to do it. I thought one's last day at work was supposed to be like the last day at school: playing board games, something nice from the cafeteria that doesn't taste of kippered squirrels for a change, and getting home early. Darn it.

I'd been looking forward to flouncing off after a long, boozy lunch. After all, there are few times that manly, bearded men can flounce and one of them is on resigning from a life of Project Management. The others are being awarded an OBE for 'services to pigeon-wrangling', or on discovering a half-eaten Prime Minister in your linen cupboard. Other than that, we're a flounce free zone. But with a stack of paperwork to wade through before the end of the day there was no post-PM-job flouncing for me. The best I could manage was a sort of crab-like shuffle and strange eggy smell.

Worse yet, as I'm basically an honest person, I couldn't even bring myself to load up on free stationary and office furniture. And there was virtually no other bugger there, who'd have noticed? Not so much as a pad of Post-it notes. *sigh*

So, that marks the end of an era -- I'm going to stick my toe in the tap-hole of freelance literature and hope to God there's enough water and bubbles in the tub to keep my unmentionable gentleman's parts covered. Just in case we have to call the fire brigade to get me out.

Pass the soap would you?

In which it is begun

Yes, at long last the first words of Book Number The Fourth clickity-clacked from finger, to keyboard, to screen... and then presumably into some sort of whirry magnetic storage thing run by magical pixies who all live at home with their mums, wear glasses, Star Trek T-shirts and never get to have sex with anyone other than themselves. Or I may be generalising there.

So, if you're trivia orientated (you saucy minxes you) the first word of Book 4 is 'The'. If you don't count heading and things, then it's 'What'. But we do count them, so 'The' it is.

In COLD GRANITE it was: 'Dead'
In DYING LIGHT: 'The'
And BROKEN SKIN: 'Sex' or 'Up' if you're Mr Pedantic Trousers

This makes 'The' my most popular starting word with 50% of all Logan McRae books starting with the definite article. Perhaps that's not super-interesting right now, but when historians look back on this moment, trying to apportion the blame, they'll have hard facts to base their wild inaccuracies on.

And just in case you're interested, I wasn't wearing my new surgical scrubs while I wrote that tremulous, portentous first word, because I got onion gravy on them last night at dinner. This means you'll just have to close your eyes and imagine what I was wearing instead... mmm... OH! Your imagination has cold hands!

In which our bearded protagonist makes out like a bandit

Obviously I don't mean 'make out' as in to smooch, fondle and cop a feel, dressed up in bandoleers, sombrero and comedy moustache. That would just be silly. No I refer instead to that shrine to commercial consumerism: Christmas. Santa clearly thought I'd been a very good boy this year (sucker) and did festoon the underside of our tree with piles of parcels.

She Who Must Not Be Disillusioned About The Whole Fat Man Dressed In Red Reverse Burgling People's Houses In The Dead Of Night Thing did not too bad on the present front either, but this is my blog, not hers, so I'll just bang on about my presents if you don't mind. One of the bestest things I did get for Christmas was a set of surgical scrubs in a fetching green-ish tinge. I'd been wanting a pair to write in because nice though jammies are, they can get a bit samey after a while. Plus there were all those awkward moment when I'd answer the door in my pyjamas* and the person on the outside would worry that I'd been sleeping and they'd woken me up. Now, when I answer the door in my surgical scrubs**, they'll just think I've been performing some sort of invasive medical procedure instead. Especially when they're all smeared with fresh blood. All I need now is to make myself a fake ID, sling a stethoscope round my neck, and I can run amuck in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, wheeching out appendixes and examining ladies front chesty-bits. Trust me my dear, I'm dressed like a doctor...

I also lucked into a copy of Dante's DIVINE COMEDY, illustrated by Gustave Doré which I've been wanting for about 15 years. Hurrah! Clever old Santa!

And as if that wasn't enough, an obscene amount of American candy and hot sauce arrived from Iowa, accompanying a copy of Tamara Siler Jones's VALLEY OF THE SOUL. Which I've been looking forward to reading all year, if it's anywhere near as good as THREADS OF MALICE it'll be very, very good indeed. But more of that later, I think.

For now I'm off to get myself outside something medicinal. And then I might actually start laying the groundwork for some writing... But I wouldn't hold my breath.

* Cue the second oldest joke in the world.
** And because it doesn't get out much, let's cue it up again.

'Twas the night before Christmas

Scene of crime # 1283-A
unidentified mouse - male, dismembered corpse*

And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Because an unknown feline had struck again. Well, I say 'unknown', but we've got a pretty shrewd idea who was responsible for the dismembered mouse on the porch this morning. Call it an early Christmas present.

At least I managed to see this one in time. Not like the last shrew Little Miss left for us, which went 'crunch' when I stepped on it. Which isn't as fun as it sounds when you're not wearing anything on your feet. Except squashed shrew.

Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain, at least Grendel has thought to bring us a good haunch of mouse for our Christmas dinner. We'll have it roast to go with the beef. Mmm, beef and mouse: rodent and turf, our favourite.

With the exception of the meal, we're pretty much set for the festivities now. The presents are all made, wrapped and jammed in under the tree. There's enough booze in the drinks closet to keep a party of MPs going for about 15 minutes (which is a lot!), and come tomorrow we'll be drowning in a sea of sweeties, good food and fine wine. The cat will be out of her head on catnip, the horse will be confused and a bit daft. No change from a normal day for him then.

But if we don't see you before, make sure you have a good one, enjoy yourselves and each other (as long as you're all adults and take turns with the baby oil and turkey baster). We'll be thinking of you at Casa MacBride as we plough through 4 courses of hedonism. But if it's OK with you, we'll be thinking of you fully dressed so as not to put anyone off their sprouts.

To the Christmas Tree!

* Because let's face it: it wouldn't be Christmas without a picture of a mouse's rear half with all its innards poking out.

Ow, stop that!

I was struck by something yesterday -- not She Who Must Be Reported For Husband-Related Cruelty for a change -- the urge to write. Words. Real pretend, made-up words of fiction and stuff. Of course I resisted, fought back. Shouted, "Bugger off, naughty words!" But they persisted. In the end I only managed to avoid them by hiding in the cupboard under the stairs with all the homemade pickles, preserves, rhubarb vodka, and monkeys. I was able to use their simian grey matter as a shield (well, I was caught unawares, otherwise I'd've had my tinfoil hat on. Very good for blocking random thoughts, rogue words, and alien signals is a tinfoil hat. Plus it reflects back the heat of your brain and keeps your hair warm. Tinfoil hat - not just for loonies!)

I did give in for just a moment and wrote the opening phrase up on the whiteboard, before making a run for it, so it almost looks like I've actually done something. But I haven't.

But I do know that Book Number The Fourth (has a working title, but I don't like it, so I'm not telling anyone in case it sticks) is going to be very different from CG, DL and BS. Not least in some of the structure and formatting, which is going to bug the living hell out of my editors. I'm a bad, bad, naughty write-ist.

All I have to do now is sit down and write the bloody thing.

Only that's not going to happen before Christmas, is it? Nope. I'm at home today, sorting out a tree and glue-related mishap. Tomorrow is the INoGITCH project management lunch (for which one is expected to take a half day from one's holiday allowance and pay for the thing oneself) followed by She Who Must Fret Endlessly Over 'Not Having Anything To Wear' As Is Traditional At Every Possible Occasion's big work's bash at a fancy hotel with good food, lashings of champagne (all on the company, because they're very good that way), and much talking of toot into the wee-small hours.

So no writing there either.

Saturday will be spent getting last minute things ready for Christmas. Sunday is Christmas Eve and features an family dinner, and Monday is food and drink central for two (plus one cat) at Casa MacBride.

I could write on Boxing Day, but you know what? I need a sodding holiday. But I may write anyway. Or not. I shall see how the mood takes me. Screw conventional wisdom: 'to be a writer you must write every day', you know what: sometimes life gets in the way.

Besides, I nearly jacked in the whole Making Shite Up For A Living thing on Tuesday. Was all set to rescind my resignation, hand my advance back to HarperCollins, and go back to being a wage slave for the rest of my days. And compared with that, taking a couple of days off at the end of the year seems not too big a deal after all.

So God bless us, one and all. Except for Rickards*, who's beyond help in that department.

* Ever since writing about him as a PC in BROKEN SKIN, I've got into the habit of referring to John by his last name. I know I drone on and on about this when I do events, but it always strikes me as odd how most writers (like Mr Billingham, and Mr Rankin for example) when they're talking about their own books tend to refer to their protagonists by their last name, rather than their first. As if they weren't really on friendly terms. Logan has always been Logan to me. Not McRae. But John is now Rickards. Or 'Spanky'. Strange, but true.

Dude, like, chill!

I was going to post about the Ipswich murders and being in the strange and somewhat depressing position of watching similar crimes to ones I’d made up for DYING LIGHT happening in real life, but that’s maybe something for later. Instead I’m going to clamber aboard the old pimpmobile and thrust my groin provocatively at the Dutch.

Yes, I’ve just been sent a copy of Uniboek’s fiction catalogue and it looks like the book’s going to be called DOOD KALM (which is a seriously cool title and makes me think of The Big Lebowski, Shaggy from Scooby Doo, and of course: Iowa).

According to the write-up in the catalogue, “Logan McRae – de held uit Steenkoud – is terug in deze ijzersterke, met galgenhumor doordenkte, tweede thriller van Stuart MacBride.” I’ve no idea what a tweedy thriller is, presumably something where geography teachers save the world from terrorists hell bent on stealing all the globes from their classrooms and replacing them with nuclear bombs carved in the shape of Mrs Ritchie from the maths department. Or something. It certainly sounds like the sort of book that has leather patches on the elbows anyway.

Who could argue with that?

Twixt the grape and the grain.

Sheila had a giveaway on her blog the other day where people had to say what they'd least like for Christmas. Personally I was surprised just how many of them listed the demon drink at the top of their poop list. Good for them: one has to admire anyone who can face down their demons and poke them in the eye, while saying, "Take that, naughty alcohol / heroin / botulism / sex with goats / cigarettes , you have no hold over me!"

But personally I'm off my antibiotics and enjoying the delights of Bacchus. Wheeeeeeeee...

I was watching Stephen King being interviewed by Mark Lawson the other night -- which had all the appeal of a road accident. Marky-boy had his list of questions and he was bloody well going to go through them one at a time, in the order they were on his clipboard, word for bloody word. But Mr King (he likes me to call him that because I've never met the man) was talking about his addictive personality and how one beer would lead immediately to dribbling alcoholism. That was just they way his mind worked -- drink, drugs -- he's got an addictive personality.

And that got me to thinking: just how many writers out there have 'differently-abled' brains?

When it comes to proper celebrities (i.e. not people who've floated up into the public consciousness for sitting in a house on telly doing bugger all for a few weeks, or eaten bugs in a jungle somewhere) there seems to be an abnormal amount of people suffering from Bipolar Disorder. There seems to be something in a disjointed mind that propels, or fuels people into the limelight.

Or perhaps being in the public eye is the one sphere where you really don't have to be mad to work here, but it does seem to help.

The one-eyed terror box

With stoic presence of mind, and a hat lined with tinfoil, I've managed not to think about this TV punditry thing I recorded way back at Harrogate. Until now, which is pretty much when the damn thing's on. Tomorrow, Tuesday the 11th of December will be notable for two things in the Land Of The Beard:

1. Trace's new book FINDING CHLOE is out from Liquid Silver Books.
2. That Super Sleuths special on R.D. Wingfield's A TOUCH OF FROST is broadcast.

So as of tomorrow evening, anyone tuning in to ITV3 between 21:00 and 22:00 will be able to see a "Documentary looking behind the scenes of A Touch of Frost, which was based on the crime novels of RD Wingfield. Featuring a look at how the series fulfilled David Jason's desire to play a detective, with contributions from cast, crew and crime writers" Where one of said crime writers is bearded and probably shouldn't appear on telly when people are eating their tea.

I never could stand seeing myself in things: when I did the old acting malarkey I hated watching the inevitable cast video. I'd turn off the radio whenever the adverts I'd done voiceovers for came on. I wouldn't watch the safety training videos... OK, so I never actually needed to operate a Wellhead Pipe Clamp Thingie, but it I needed to, I probably couldn't, because I'd have spent the entire training video staring at the carpet with my fingers in my ears, going, "La-la-la-la-la-la-la!" So I don't see that this is going to be any less painful*.

I get the feeling I'm going to come across as complete and utter Muppet. A very enthusiastic Muppet. Grover -- I'm going to come across as Grover, only not so erudite.

And the worst bit is that as I'm on these damnable antibiotics I can't even drink myself into a fuzzy, warm stupor before hand. I think I may just have to go hide under a rock till it's all over. She Who Must Lie And Say I Didn't Make A Huge Tit Of Myself can watch it and let me know how it turned out.

Shudder...

* Mind you, other people used to tell me I was actually quite good… lying bastards!

Never read the small print.

Everyone always tells you to read every single last bit of miniscule text before you sign anything. Which is good advice, provided you can understand the tortuous, mumbling obfuscation that merrily trips from the pen of lawyers and other associated cockweasels all over the globe. But there is one place where I wonder if ignorance isn't bliss: I read the 'Possible Side Effects' on my antibiotics this morning, and now feel a lot worse than I did.

And I quote:
If the following happens, stop taking Clarithromycin and tell your doctor immediately or go to the casualty department at your nearest hospital:

• Difficulty in breathing and swelling of the lips, face and neck.
• Skin rash, which may range in severity from itchy skin eruptions to serious blistering of the skin or ulceration of the lips, nose mouth and genitals.

Ulcerated genitals? Damn right I'm going immediately to hospital! Me, my blistered skin and swollen neck are going to break all land-speed records getting there. It's not like I can call for an ambulance anyway, what with my lips being all puffy and oozing.

Other possible side effects include:

• Stomach problems such as nausea, vomiting, indigestion, stomach pains, or diarrhoea. [well, that sounds like a fun Saturday night]
• Prolonged attacks of diarrhoea, which has blood or mucus in it (if this occurs you must consult your doctor immediately) [Another 'no shit Sherlock' moment there, only obviously there would be, and it'd be all red and stinging. Add that to the ulcerated genitals and things aren't looking too good in the underpants department.]
• Change in sense of taste or smell, funny taste in your mouth. [perhaps the funny taste is caused by all that vomiting, and after the borsch-coloured toilet trips I think we can all guess where the change in smell is coming from.]

The side effects given below are usually short lived [presumably because you drop down dead of embarrassment at your bleeding bum and pustule-covered willy] and soon disappear:

• Dizziness, vertigo, disorientation.
• Difficulty sleeping [not surprising when you've got 'prolonged attacks of diarrhoea'], bad dreams, hallucinations.
• Confusion, change in the sense of reality and feeling panicky. [Damn right I'm feeling panicky! Who wouldn't be? I can't talk, my trousers look like a vampire threw up on them, my head's the size of a bouncy castle and I'm seeing things.]

Rare side effects include:

• Hearing loss
• Unusual bleeding [I'm assuming this is in addition to the bottom haemorrhaging mentioned above, like that wasn't sodding unusual enough.]
• Liver or gall bladder problems
• Jaundice
• Kidney problems
• Fits...

And this stuff is supposed to make me feel better?

Like unto an big festering boil...

Yes, things have come to a head at INoGITCH, only I'm the one getting squeezed, so I suppose that makes me the sticky yellow goop in this analogy... Hmm, that doesn't seem right. Anyway, I've been the filling in the spot, and the twin fingers of WORK and WRITERING have been squeeeeeeeezing hard, trying to squirt me out all over the bathroom mirror, like a squashed fly. (LEAVE THE PLOOK ANALOGY ALONE!)

So today I decided to apply the Clearasil and as such I'll be officially unemployed as of the 29th of December. It's a shame as I've really enjoyed being back at work, dealing with the old rabble, doing stuff with my brain, astonishing people with the holes that got drilled in my head. And the paycheques! Ooooh... the paycheques. How nice it was to know that the bills were covered with enough left over for a small packet of sherbet lemons and some cat food. But in the end I figured that Opportunity is only going to knock for so long, before it decides, 'To hell with this: I'm off for a curry!' never to be heard from again. Except perhaps as a faint, faraway farting noise. And the toe-curling smell of second hand Cauliflower Biryani. With Garlic Nan*.

That doesn't mean I won't be crawling back to INoGITCH in a couple of years if it all goes nipples-up in Write-ist Land, but for now I'm going to give it the old college try. Or I would if I'd actually gone to an old college, rather than a slightly whiffy university (and not for very long at that).

This year, part time almost write-ist with some project management thrown in for good measure. Next year penury!

* And no -- I don't want to encourage anyone to rub garlic into their grandmother. It's not wholesome and can cause offence.

I did not know that...

I've been researching away like a mad thing lately... well, maybe not mad. More like 'challenged'. I've been off to see the Harbour people and organised a tour; I've chatted to a very nice man in the police; I've nipped round the seven incorporated trades with a video camera; I've talked to the Sheriff's Office (which doesn't actually involve standing outside a wooden building in the wild west, while people drink rotgut from the bottle and brand each other's cattle on the buttocks*); and I've sat in on a session in the Court.

I'd never been to court before (because I'm a good boy I am, wash me hands and face before I come, I did) and it was nothing like I'd expected. For a start it was incredibly, toe curlingly, eat my own duodenum, DULL. Seriously, seriously dull. So dull it was almost fascinating in a hypnotically dull way. I sat there for an hour and a bit, thinking "this is bloody awful..." but I couldn't tear myself away as a progression of eight people stood, sat, were mumbled at, and given fines, or bound over for trial. I'm guessing they found it a lot more interesting than I did, being as they had more of a personal stake in the whole dreary thing.

Mostly it consisted of legal people reading things, repeating things another legal person had just said, passing pits of paper to one another, or not being there when their clients were dragged up from the cells. Maybe that's why trials aren't really televised in this country -- too dull. OK, so I know this whole legal thing is a solemn affair, but would it kill them to add a bit of razzmatazz? Some lighting effects? Dramatic music? Dancing girls?

And I should state for the record, Milord, that I wasn't sitting in on anything serious -- all the really nasty stuff goes up to the High Court -- just people who hadn't paid their parking tickets (for 4 years), or bought beer for a 14-year-old, broke a glass in a restaurant, or did something or other involving what sounded like a chicken and some sellotape (it was difficult to tell from the shambling dribble coming out of the defence lawyer's head).

But it rapidly became clear that I'd got loads and loads of things wrong in the first two books. And more in the third too. I am the King of Wrong! Bow down before my mighty armies of ineptitude! And maybe make offerings of scones, and cheese straws and some nice wine to go with it for when I'm off my regal antibiotics again.

On a different topic, I'd like to thank all those who've been in touch about their experience with cutting up dead animals. I've been having some problems with the old email stuff, but I shall get back to soon. Honest!

*Which sounds a bit 'YMCA' to me, if you know what I mean.

Sniff

I blame the bloke I sit next to at work. Within about three minutes of sitting down in his general vicinity there was a theme song going through my head:

"He coughs, he wheezes,
He smells and spreads diseases..."

Which is, of course, my roundabout way of saying that the bastard has gifted me his cold. That shouldn't be very surprising in the great scheme of things: I've gone back to working in an office with other people. Other people are germ magnets and bogie factories. Much though they should all be hermetically sealed in plastic bags and thrown out of moving trains, this leads to the spread of disease. The black rat during the middle ages has nothing on your standard cubicle farm office environment.

Now I'm not one who subscribes to the 'Man Flu' hysteria favoured by so many people of the trousered persuasion. What I get are mostly colds, not flu. If you can struggle your way into work, plonk yourself down at your desk and spend the next seven and a half hours producing sticky mucus, you don't have flu, no matter how often you tell people you have. You are what is known in medical circles as 'an lying bastard'.

If you actually had flu, you wouldn't be able to get your sweat-drenched, shivering arse out of bed, let alone drive to the office. Your limbs would have the consistency of slimy porridge and weigh about the same as a medium-sized hippopotamus. If he had flu, Conan the Barbarian couldn't clamber his way out from beneath his duvet and into his reasonably priced Reno Fuego. Nor would he lay there, making big puppy eyes at Red Sonioa so she'll nip down to the shops to bring him back a packet of Maltesers and a big yellow bottle of Lucozade. No, he's going to be wondering if it was the bloke he robbed the Serpent King's tower with that gave him the dreaded lurgie, and whether he should rip the bastards bowels out with a toasting fork as a thank you. Just as soon as he's finished throwing up.

My main problem at the moment is not so much the cold on it's own, it's how it interacts with the demonized labyrinthine mess three doses of surgery have left my sinuses in. It probably doesn't help that last time I was in the Doctor's Torture Chamber to have my nose hoovered out -- seriously, they do it every other week for about a month and a half after you have the surgery, I won't go into the revolting details, but you're unlikely ever to look at a pair of needle-nosed pliers in the same way ever again -- I was put back on antibiotics . Again. And not the normal stuff either: they were all out of that so I was sent packing with the double-strength horse pills they had malingering about at the back of the drugs cabinet, and a £28.00 bill instead. So not only are they the worlds most expensive chunks of cultivated mould, I need a knife and fork to eat the bloody things.

They make me feel bloody awful as well. I don't like antibiotics. I do not like them with a drink, I do not like them in the sink, I do not like them up the stairs, I do not like them with beard hairs, I do not like those nasty pills, the bloody things make me feel ill. And if they're so damn good for you, how come the wheezer has managed to give me his cold? Eh?*

I'm hoping that 2007 is going to be a much better year than this one has been. I'm thinking of sending 2006 back to the shop with a stiffly worded letter of complaint. I seem to have spent the whole thing with horrifically nasty stuff going into, or coming out of my nose.

* And no, you're not allowed to get all snooty about bacterial infections being different from viruses. It's a rhetorical question.