it never fails, those pesky snails are always in the pudding

Definition of success: hand Da Niece, who turned four yesterday, her birthday present, which included a slim vol. entitled Polkabats and Octopus Slacks, and have her utter a demented shriek of joy at the title. I recommend said vol., incidentally - it comprises a random selection of completely off-the-wall and surreal short poems with psychedelic illustrations and a nice line in unlikely rhymes. (I acquired it off Loot, not sure if Exclusive wots of its existence). She also scored the obligatory Gaiman (The Day I Swapped My Dad For Two Goldfish), thus ensuring that I have fulfilled my auntly obligation to build up the necessary sf-geek-cred good and early.

Have woken up this morning with exhaustion, a snuffly head and aching joints, and a tendency to go for student throats with my teeth. Well, phooey. Shall console myself with silly photos of my silly cat, who insists on perching on the subwoofer, overflowing gently:



The only possibly caption for this photo is, of course, ALL YOUR BASS ARE BELONG TO US.