A Sunday Grumble

Nothing much to write about today. It's a dreary, rainy Sunday that's neither hot nor cold, just kind of in between so your body temperature runs itself ragged trying to regulate itself and all that happens is you wind up feeling out-of-sorts. It's humid, of course, and that wears me out in and of itself. I can stand just about anything but damp and humidity. Ugh. What's worse - hot humidity or cold?

In the meantime, waiting for the baseball games to begin (if rain doesn't shut them down), I'm reading a couple of recommended books and liking them very much: Miss Hargreaves by Frank Taylor and Time Travelers Never Die by Jack McDevitt. I've already finished Down the Rabbit Hole by Peter Abrahams, another recommendation I liked, but don't want to write about until I finish the Taylor and McDevitt books. It'll be a kind of trifecta of agreeableness. (These are part of last week's Library Loot.) Three very different books with not much in common except they're all three well-written and all contain different lengths of mysterious thread. In my classics reading (I suppose that Conrad is regarded as a classic), I'm still struggling a bit through Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent. The book just has such a dreary core that I hesitate to get back to it when I'm feeling out of sorts. But eventually I'll finish it. I'd like to think I read at least one or two literary classics a year without actually being prompted to do so. It makes me feel very virtuous.

(The expression on the face of Tim Burton's March Hare matches mine today.) Ha!