Welcome to my perfumed garden

It's 'Tales From Europe' out there, it really is. An icy, frosty landcape lit by a low, white sun; everything drawn in muted, pastel shades. The waterfall will be frozen. It's The Singing Ringing Tree and I needs must go and play in it.

I am hoping to get oot and aboot later and do some pix before it's dark - bearing in mind we get about 6 hours of daylight this time of year, but I have to wait in for the coal/log man for the need is great indeed. We have one bucket of fuel left and a delusional stove that thinks it's powering the QE2 (I've turned it down as far as it will go! she screamed hysterically on a fish-eye lens, mascara running down her cheeks.) Mark's gone out to buy sundry items and I really should be working.

I think more coffee is called for. Then work. Lots of it. Oh yes. ::girds loins. loins refuse to be girded. hand reaches for toast. bottom seats itself somewhere comfy::

By the estimable Mr. Mark Gatiss (who just happens to be one of my favourite comedy and Who writers).

I was generously offered a free copy of this in return for reviewing it on my LJ, just in case my regulars are confused by my sudden launch into book reviewery. So, like the notorious doxie and book-ho I am...

( The Vesuvius Club. My considered opinion lies hidden deep behind this cut...  )

(Cross-posting this review to GoodReads and Amazon).