a green and yellow melancholy

Winter is here, possibly only temporarily, but definitely present and flinging its weight about. It's been freezing cold; the cats are in a giant furry puddle in the one patch of sun in the house, and some sod has snuck in and replaced both my feet with blocks of ice. I shall endeavour to forestall the advance of the glaciers by rubbing together bits of linkage for warmth.

• Acrobots!. They sproing on their giant bendy legs, and hold sucker-cup hands to fling each other around the show. They're hypnotic, pointless, balletic and curiously endearing.
• A test. For would-be writers of fantasy novels. It would be a better, happier world if someone enforced this, thus allowing us exhausted, battered fantasy fans to emerge slightly from the steaming piles of slush though which we weariedly quest for actual evidence of literature.

This bunny is doomed to stagger down the notional catwalk as a fully-accessorised horror, dripping twee plastic fashion items, random extra appendages and a properly homicidal array of guns, blades and skulls. I don't know if it's the sinus infection or the antibiotics, but I've been feeling horribly ill all day, and am finding it difficult to think coherently. It's depressing to reach page 5 of your swanky, newly-arrived book on pop culture only to realise that the churning of your stomach has been loud enough to drown out any actual meaning from the words you were supposed to be imbibing. Bleah.