Liadnan

I left the house twice this weekend, on specific short errands. The rest of my time I spent in bed, listening to the wind howl... no snow, though there was plenty of that Friday, just wind and drizzle. Since Saturday morning consisted largely of an intake of neurofen and a re-iteration of the mantra that past 30 one should not mix wine and whisky this was possibly a wise move. (Highlights of Friday evening included my gun-toting secretary picking me up and carrying me round the boardroom in an effort to persuade me to stay, but we'll draw a veil over that.)

My resolve not to buy more stuff before my imminent return crumbled on Friday afternoon and I ended up walking out of Ottakars some 25 quid the poorer. All now read.

First up was the second Captain Alatriste, Purity of Blood. These are essentially Arturo Perez-Reverte's Spanish version of Dumas (you can't help trying to work out whether, and if so at what point in his career, Captain Alatriste will actually run into the Three Musketeers). They've apparently been a massive craze in Spain for years, but its only very recently, presumably on the back of Perez-Reverte's success with his other novels, from The Dumas Club (filmed, by all accounts unsuccessfully, as The Ninth Gate (not seen) and the novel featuring a cameo appearance by one of its obvious inspirers, an unnamed great Dumas fan, described only as the Professor of Semiotics at Bologna) to Queen of the South, that they've been translated. I think they're fantastic fun.

Second was Naomi Novik's Temeraire (how does she get livejournal to do that?) - Napoleonic fantasy with dragons. The blurb cites Stephen King referencing Susannah Clarke. I don't think this is anywhere near up to the strength of Jonathan Strange, but then I think few things are. I do think that early-modern to Victorian fantasy (as opposed to science) influenced alternate history is a sub-genre that's going to be quite popular for a while, and why not? Lots of mileage. As Joff semi-argued elsewhere it has the advantage over steampunk in that the bounds of the latter if construed strictly, are pretty narrow -and lets face it, few conform. It's not new as such -Clarke's partner, Colin Greenland produced what I think remains his most imaginative and best-written work yet, Harm's Way some years ago now, even before one goes delving into prototypes in older stuff. So the real question, as with all genres, is what to call it. Steam and Sorcery?

To be honest, the other blurb, from McCaffrey, was more indicative of where the novel was going, as was the reference to Patrick O'Brien (who, I'm afraid, completely fails to grab me, give me Hornblower and Ramage any day, though I'm aware the vast majority of my reading list disagree) though she's a better writer than MacCaffrey ever was. Her characters are far less complex than Clarke's, and it feels far more a straight historical novel with added dragons (though to be fair this is but the first of a series). One thing Clarke did that Novik is less strong on is try and give some historical context: it's difficult without a bit more background to believe that notwithstanding a serious aerial bombardment capability used, we're told, by Francis Drake to beat the armada, we've nonetheless ended up in much the same historical situation at the time of Trafalgar (which takes place, offstage, during the book) as we do in our universe -though one notable outcome of Trafalgar seems to be different. Certainly worth keeping an eye on though.

Last up was part of my on-going effort to re-read a significant chunk of The Canon: on this occasion Trollope's Barchester novels, specifically Barchester Towers. It must be more than 15 years since I touched these, and I'd utterly forgotten how they read. I'd still take Austen, George Eliot, and Thackeray above him but he's a close follower (and streets ahead of Dickens in my personal ranking). Where he falls down most is on the romantic element -I don't find those relationships particularly convincing, though he does have a few brilliant one-liners even there. But the social and ecclesiastical politics, and the humour -even when he wanders away on one of his digressions- is marvellous. Incidentally I'm half convinced Tolkien had Barsetshire in mind when he created the Shire, though a Barsetshire shorn of the city pf Barchester and the ecclesiastical elements that for Trollope were the foundations of the place. (In particular I think the "Long-Expected Party" owes a conscious debt to the Thorne's great do at Ellathorne - I imagine someone has pointed this out before but it was a new realisation for me.)

Incidentally, I forgot to write about Gothic Nightmares at The Tate at which I spent much of last Saturday courtesy and in the always good company of Frankie. Well worth a visit anyway, particularly for room 6 ("Fairies and Fatal Women", including Blake and Fuseli's Midsummer Night's Dream inspired-work and associated pieces, plus some of Fuseli's porn (as in explicit, rather than as in "almost everything he ever painted")), though definitely better to try and find an off-peak time to go.

Spent Sunday evening with Midsomer Murders, in which Bergerac's DCI Barnaby's sidekick is these days played by that chap what played Warren in This Life. Which makes his claim that he used to visit Midsomer Whatever's annual show regularly as a child feel a bit spurious, as it's difficult enough to believe that he stepped outside the Valleys once before the age of 18, let alone that he was an annual visitor to a small village in pastiche-Glos/Oxon. I mean, there's suspension of disbelief, and there's flying trapezi of disbelief. Also if I knew Barnaby was investigating a murder in my small village I'd be on the road away from there as fast as possible, the man is more Death on a Pale Horse than Morse ever was. Absolute nonsense, guest-starring a hamming-it-up Simon Callow (does he ever do anything else, but I love him to pieces, plus he once gave me a cigar) can't do better on a Sunday evening.

Madeira-aged Glenmorangie is a marvellous thing, and tolerably affordable when regularly passing through duty-free. So, by and large, is Chilean Merlot followed by Dubonnet. Yes, I did spend a large part of the weekend mildly sloshed. I just have to remember not to mix the two... Still, at least I discovered the Sekrit, or rather, misplaced, stash of cds: Mozart Requiem and Beethoven Late Quartets both of which, particularly the latter, bear repeated re-listening.

Some bits and pieces of writing done as well, none of it particularly good.

Ho hum.

The July flood of work continues unabated: many solicitors seem to suddenly appreciate the approach of limitation and procedural deadlines and the possible interference that might cause with their holiday plans at the beginning of July (and also the beginning of December). August and January seem, at least in my line, to be utterly dead by contrast.

The upshot of this is that for the last three mornings I have been dragging myself out of bed at ungodly hours in order to reach county courts in the middle of nowhere by 9.30 in the morning. Surrey and Herts are now my oyster. Or something. Then returning to Chambers to plough through mounds of paper, with more arriving every day. As a result little of interest has been happening in my life, save that I skived off a bit early on Tuesday to wander round the Islamic Art exhibition with Frankie

Frankly, I don't really think it deserves the blurb of "one of the cultural highlights of the year" and much of it left us cold. Interesting though, and as Frankie pointed out, we'd probably have appreciated it more if we were more attuned to the culture that produced it, particularly the miniature illustrations of legends and the like.

When I woke up, the vague hints at the back of my nose had turned into a full-fledged summer cold, coupled with a massive headache, so I'm taking advantage of the fact I have no hearing today to have a slow start at home. Unfortunately I have a long meeting to go to this evening...

Whatever. I have little to say. Go read Frankie's response to the vile Amanda Platell who apparently doesn't think the recent crop of large awards to women in the courts are deserved. Though frankly the intersection of Amanda Platell and the Daily Mail should be warning enough for any sane reader.

As I understand it, though, the decisions were based more on clear gender discrimination, rather than the sexual harrassment issues: while the two inevitably often occur together and together often give rise to constructive dismissal cases, they aren't the same thing.

Hmm. It would seem that my Chambers has enough of a critical mass of members who are more interested in discussing racing scandals -with particular reference to Kieran Fallon (and also Fox)- than actually doing any work to sustain teatime conversation for an hour and a quarter.

I admit to being a prime offender.

Toddled off to The Tate (look, it takes a definite article you fuckers, and nothing you can do is going to make me agree to the contrary) last night for the pre-Raphaelite landscapes exhibition last night, in company with Frankie. Lots of pretty pictures, but my eventual conclusion, and I think Frankie's too, was along the lines of "well, that was nice." It is, perhaps, worth pointing out that "nice" is almost an insult so far as I'm concerned. It was interesting, to be fair, but it didn't blow me away at all.

Still, wine before, whisky in the pub after, ended up far more pissed than I should have been and had a good time all round.

Feel like shite today, but I don't think that's connected.

I had completely forgotten, if I ever knew, until hearing something about it on the radio a few months ago, that that song was actually about an American school shooting (the reason given by the kid was he "didn't like Mondays", but you probably all remembered that.) Well, I'm not planning to do anything similar, but the week is looking pretty hellish. Lots of court work and other stuff, and the weekend has left me completely whacked. I'm too old for all this. I should give up drinking and take up gardening.

Spent Sunday wandering around the V&A in fugue state. It always seems the appropriate thing to do if I'm alone on a wet Sunday afternoon. Got a bit overpowered by the silver galleries so I went and spent my time wandering around the far eastern stuff, about which I know bugger all, before winding back up in the early medieval stuff (which I go and look at about once a month and have done for sopme years now). Was going to go to The Tate (I have a pedantic block stopping me calling it Tate Britain, for it is a naff name) but ran out of time... maybe if I get back from court before 5 today I'll go for a wander there instead of going back to work.

In Reading Tues morning if you feel like a lunchtime coffee somewhere near the lawcourts Ailbhe?

Hurrah, another Monday completed. I was supposed to be going out for a drink with my favourite person in the world, but I'm so tired I'm almost glad she rescheduled.

Mixed weekend. I did nothing in particular on Friday night, despite abortive efforts to do something (...anything...), just sat and watched hours of television. I really have to do something about that. Mind you, current Friends is acceptable, and Buffy remains Buffy. I do need a new VCR to avoid my slavery to the schedules though.

Shopped and wandered around on Saturday, then went to a party for a while, where Adele and R&S and I talked to each other and not many other people. Considering that we see each other all the time, that was perhaps unduly unsociable, but what the hell. Talked a great deal to Steph about impending war and related things. Both she and I seem to be slowly converting to reluctant hawks on this one.

Sunday, my default Sunday thing, which I hadn't had time for before this year: choice of a London gallery or museum. Back to the old stalwart of the National Gallery this time. Tried to see new things but decided 17th century Spanish wasn't for me and ended up back in the Sainsbury Wing (medieval) as usual. Ho hum. One day I must remember to be adventurous. My excuse is that I was, and am, feeling mildly blue, for no particularly good reason.