the words! they burn! Or, possibly, bite.

My evenings have become somewhat babylonian in the last little while, but I am nonetheless finding time to rewatch Torchwood, on the grounds that dodgy sexual undercurrents and quasi-realism in contemporary Brit sf TV can only distract me from the dogdy sexual undercurrents and quasi-realism in my thesis. I am halfway through the stupid fairy episode, which is, the horrors of "Countrycide" emotional overwroughtness notwithstanding, the current favourite contender for the worst in the season. Last night I stuck, for the second time, at the bit where Jack gives Gwen an incredibly overwritten, pretentious and basically incomprehensible rant about the generally numinous, evanescent, liminal and indeterminate nature of whatever interdimensional entities are being used to occupy the cultural niche labelled "fey": I had to pause the media player in order to froth, gnash and excoriate the name of the scriptwriter. People don't talk like that. I am starting to believe that I was unduly harsh on poor old Captain Jack: he emotes perfectly well if you give him something reasonable to say.

Life is very full of curriculum advice, honours dissertation draft annotation and postmodern feminist criticism, but I cannot pass up this opportunity to support a Google-bombing attempt. Neil Gaiman wrote two new movies in the time that it took me to type Penn Jillette. Not that the Google search engines are going to be affected in the slightest by the fleabite that is my blog, but it's the first time Neil Gaiman has asked me to do anything, and who am I to refuse?

Which reminds me. There are fleabites all over my legs. Unless they're spiderbites, or bedbug welts, or a sort of ankle-level rash brought out by irritation overload from Torchwood dialogue and too much mention of performativity. Either way, not amused.