It would be fair to say that it's a wee bit warm today. I've just been sat out in the garden reading the opening of The Bourne Identity and I've had to come in to cool down. Fortunately, we have a seat in the shade in the garden as well as a seat in the sun, so I'll be out there after I've finished writing this and done a bit more work on The Ambassador. However, as a Yorkshireman, I was designed to not get on with the sun, and my days would be better spent down a pit where it is at least cool. Ee by gum!
This weekend's been fun. Most notably for Town's miserable 0-0 draw with Tranmere, in which Gary Naysmith was sent off. First booking, on second viewing, is fair enough, but for the second he got the ball clear as day. Unfortunately the ref was of the usual League One standard and decided that, although two-footed lunges aren't worth a talking-to, perfectly timed challenges are bookable offences, so off went Naysmith. The ex-Hearts, Everton and Sheffield United left-back misses next Saturday's match at Peterborough - hopefully Celtic loanee Graham Carey will be able to step up as he deputises, although he has a tough task against George Boyd, who may have stupid hair but is just a bit good.
Yesterday was better. Despite having a knee that Ledley King would be ashamed of, I ended up playing football with Chris and realised that my old football needs replacing. Chris can hit a ball, and when I was in net the ball was moving wickedly thanks to two deep cuts in the plastic covering. More than once it dipped or swerved dramatically at the last minute, leaving me looking a grade A prat. In fairness, I saved a fair few of these (which is more than Scott Carson managed for West Brom at the weekend - Fabio, are you watching?).
I also got a reading list for Law and Literature next year. Anything that tells me to read Ursula Le Guin is always going to go down well, and it has me hoping that for once something literature-related in academia isn't going to be snobbish when it comes to SF. I could go off on one here about how academics seem to think literature can't be SF and SF can't be literature, but it really isn't worth the effort right now. All I will say is that The Road is SF whether they like it or not. It might also be worth pointing out it's actually pretty unoriginal SF into the bargain and not the wondrous thing they proclaim it to be, but that's just me being petty to a point.
Right, back outside it is. It's still sunny, and by fair northern skin might just go a delicate shade of lobster, but it's worth the risk. And then pub quizzage this evening. Huzzah! Wonder what insanely offensive name Chris'll come up with this week...
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