I was settling in for a good blog rant on a couple of books. I even had visions of a metaphor I was going to use ("It lied to me, left me feeling alone and used and weeping to myself over my broken life" was an overstatement of my feelings, but it was one I was considering using just for the whore imagery.) And then I hit Ctrl-W.
Bugger.
So, short version before I go to bed: Angels and Demons, by Dan Brown - meh.
World War 2.1: Weapons of Choice, by John Birmingham (yes, the He Died With A Felafel In His Hand guy) - impressive. Also unfinished, at this stage, but I'm reading.
I had a more detailed review coming up, but I'd just finished enumerating why I thought Angels and Demons was meh (complete with Derlethian Wendigo reference!) when the dreaded Ctrl-W struck. Gah.
Might blog properly tomorrow. Or might watch the rest of Blake's 7. I'm unpredictable, me, which is what makes me so dangerous.
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