It's a Splendisaster

Last night, addled by caffeine, I lay awake trying to carve my novel's final tableau from the killing fields of Story Space. (One nice thing about Story Space: resurrections are common.) I have no fewer than ten characters converging on one place. Ten named characters. I'm not counting all those giant spiders and killer boars. So it has to be stage-managed without looking stage-managed, inevitable, yet not contrived . . . No small wonder that my approach to the ending has been asymptotic at best.

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For several days, I've been meaning to write a glowing review of Dreyer's No Sugar Added Vanilla Ice Cream. It's Splendalicious! It's Splendarific! I've gained three pounds in four days! Maybe . . . I mean, just maybe . . . the Atkins folks are wrong, and calories do matter. Maybe it is a bad idea to douche my esophagus with saturated fat. Maybe I should go back to salads and boiled eggs for dinner. Do three pounds show on me? You betcha. My son walked in on me last night after I'd taken my shower (we are still working on this 'knocking on the door' thing) and informed me that my ass jiggles when I walk. The horror.

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Hitchhiker's Guide opens tonight. If the family is willing, I'm there. A quick scan of the reviews suggests this movie may be a mixed bag, but with Alan Rickman voicing Marvin the Paranoid Android, how bad can it be? Watch this space. D.