bloody Sunday

Still can't talk, still orienting. On a Sunday, too, which mostly means frantically catching up on Friday's work while hobbling off at intervals to prevent nuclear fallout among the OLs and give them pep talks while they design presentations. The pep talk bit is tricky as I am significantly lacking in pep. The next three weeks are going to be hell - twelve-hour-day, exhausting, frantic, inventive hell - even without the addition of a wonky leg and consequent reduction of my speed to about a third. On the upside, the slower I move the fewer additional limbs I am likely to place in jeopardy. The Evil Landlord suggests that I really need to have a giant steampunk knee and leg attachment made for the offending limb, but I'm worried about this on the grounds that with my luck I'll almost certainly be hijacked by criminal penguins who will use my knee for evil deeds.

Finished Roswell. Bearing in mind all applicable caveats about the fact that it's teen television, I was pleased with it - solid emotional logic, rather cool alien abilities and special effects, only occasional descent into hopeless plot silliness, and I really liked the characters. Now I have to rewatch it from the beginning with the benefit of hindsight. (What? That really works for Buffy). Oh, and the season finale can give X-Files a few tips on how to bring a series to an emotionally satisfying conclusion without either rehashing every single subplot from previous seasons or otherwise performing back-flips over any toothy cartilaginous fish.