This time of year is peak activity for one of my more annoying habits — causing injury to the motor vehicle I am allegedly in control of. No-one else is involved. The only person at risk is me, the only thing at risk is my dignity.
Six years ago, I half-tore the front bumper off our long-suffering Note, necessitating an panicky appointment with our local body shop. The work was finished the evening before we were travelling up to Staffordshire for a big family Christmas.
This week two years ago I gently backed the same Note into a sticky-out bit of I-beam supporting an air-conditioning unit at work. The back windscreen imploded with a gentle pop. Glass everywhere.
On Monday, while pulling into our front drive I misjudged the angle of approach and swerved Harvette into a tree, cratering a divot into the join between the front and passenger-side doors. Cosmetic damage, but an insurance claim and a courtesy car nevertheless. Wails of despair from me, assurances from C that this stuff happens. Like I’m not going to blame myself brutally and at length for my shortcomings.
Why do I do this in December? I think the weeks leading up to my birthday are more discombobulating than usual. As another year ticks off my allowance, I become a little sadder, a little more distracted. Once I get past the mid-point of the month I settle down and cheer up, but in general I am a sulky little pain in the butt around now.
Tis the season, jingle trauma, falalalala boo yuk.
Best not ask for a lift from me until after Christmas. I’ll let C do the driving until then.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
A Spy Like Me by Kim Sherwood. The second in a trilogy of novels, an attempt by the James Bond franchise to reinvent the narrative without its central character. What we end up with is a perfectly decent modern spy novel which keeps getting derailed by the need to constantly rework elements like the double-0s, Moneypenny at al into the story. The one genuine innovation—Q is now a quantum computer, able to extrapolate patterns and, let’s be honest, plot motivations, out of thin air. It’s perfectly readable but doesn’t do anything to persuade me away from the conviction that Bond is a character who was seriously overdue for retirement even before he was finally killed off. Can we just move on, please?
Rob is watching…
Rebecca Gold. A web series about to be rereleased as a movie, with a role for my pal Keith. This is solid entertaining stuff with none of the pretentious or baggage of the novel bore. Give it a try!
Rob is listening…
To this lot, according to the data. Listening age: 40. Still down with the kids, yo.
Rob is eating…
Oily fish. As much as I can. It’s good for you and helps keep the blues away at the darkest point of the year. I make a mix with mackerel, chopped and broken down to a pate with spring onion, tomato, mayo and that lovely dill mustard sauce you can pick up from Ikea. Great on sandwiches, on a baked potato, scooped up with crackers. Fishylicious.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Raye.
More specifically, Raye’s song Where Is My Husband?
Even more specifically, the way Raye keeps reinventing her song Where Is My Husband for different live settings.
In the same vein as last week’s thread about the hapless bloke and an over order of rice, here’s a long set of posts regarding the one agent of chaos we all seem to know if we’re members of a big Facebook or WhatsApp group.
You know. That one.
A long read on the enduring legacy of Northampton’s most famous resident, writer and snake-god worshipping magician. We can’t discount his influence on The Ninth Art, but it’s great to see him embrace his second flush as a novelist. I sense he has always done what he wanted, and as such is extremely content with his lot.
Ghosts Out Walking In The Rain
Do I have skin in the game when we talk about early blogging? Well, you’re reading an ongoing narrative which has been running, in fits and starts, since the early 2000s. It’s a hard habit to break.
Richard Godwin of The Spirits serves up an important cocktail of tips on how to deal with that festive gathering of drinkativeness. Nothing more than common sense really, but we all know how that tends to go out of the window in December. Time to get batching.
Ann Leckie and Arkady Martine in conversation. If you’re an SF fan, interested in how to empire-build in a fictional sense, or just like to read two writers at the top of their game talking shop, then this is for you. Peak Swipery, frankly, this is the kind of article we’re all here for.
John Scalia on K-Pop Demon Hunters was not the reviewer or reviewer I thought would grab me so quickly or completely, but here we are. Still not seen it, really feel I must now.
The most boring conversation at Christmas time finally has a definitive answer. I was right all along.
There is no such thing as too many books. There. I have spoken, and I am in good company.
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”
A couple of thoughtful emails from the desks of Sean Bonnar and Mason Currey, read within five minutes of each other, stopped me in my tracks this week. When the universe offers you a subject, you’d be a fool not to accept it.
Let us consider the creative act, and whether making it your livelihood sucks every atom of joy out of it. Personally, if I had to do this in order to put food on the table and the lights on, running Excuses And Half Truths would become borderline unbearable.
One last thing. We lost Tom Stoppard this week, one of our greatest playwrights. It seems his influence may have extended further than the entertainment field. How many lives has he saved?
Let’s Outro with something quietly groovy. Golden Brown in the style of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.
You already know what this is going to sound like, don’t you?
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 