Part of the reason I'm stoked is because I finally got hotel reservations sorted for the five of us that are going to Barcelona Gothic Weekend at the end of April, so no more being turned down at one hotel after another. Hotel Chinese Cat, here we come!
I'm also excessively please because I actually got back to Putney before the W. H. Smith closed at 6 PM and was able to pick up the Charlaine Harris book I've been wanting to read since December. I ordered it in November from an Amazon seller, but somehow failed to notice they wrote me back and said it was gone. So there was a very, very long wait (and Christmas present shopping) before I realized it just wasn't going to happen. Meanwhile, books three and four of this series were giving me sad little looks from their spots on the shelves. Happily, they will soon be free, and I'll likely buy the other four books in this series. Living Dead in Dallas, I can't wait (especially after finishing another book of hers in a record 24 hour period last Sunday).
Meanwhile, poor Marcel is not keeping up. The Prisoner at this point seems like a very creepy tale of obsessive love. He needs to own her, to possess her, to know her every thought, and yet he admits that if the mystery were gone, he would be indifferent. This morning I read a long passage about him watching Albertine sleep, and it was just ... icky. I think if I were to recommend a less onerous path through this book, I'd say to skip Young Girls in Flower and this novel and work on the other four (or so) books instead. I'm only on page 64, so I clearly just haven't engaged yet. It's hard when he's competing against vampire detectives and snide little pun filled literary mysteries.
Off to dinner in a bit, as soon as I wash a few dishes ...