(Not as geeky as Nick, mind, who’s just headed out to collect a Chinese take-away with the enigmatic comment “Give my love to Broadway.” Since Nick would rather self-immolate than watch live theatre—especially musical theatre—I find this a remarkably odd comment.)

But that’s not important right now.

The important thing is that I’ve been re-reading Dorothy L. Sayers, moving on from Agatha Christie to another of the so-called Queens of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. (Which reminds me, I should track down some Margery Allingham: she’s the only one of the Queens with whom I’m unfamiliar, but the only short story of hers I’ve ever read I found a little dull.)

I’m currently re-reading Gaudy Night, which I enjoy immensely, although I understand that J. R. R. Tolkien did not care for it, much as he liked the early novels. It certainly has a confronting approach to academic life, especially the cloistering of academic women that still persisted in the 1930s: Sayers’s partly elegiac but partly anxious rendering of academia is attractive and unfamiliar to those of us whose experience of the ivory tower seems to settle on shouting “Stop jamming my papers!” at the photocopier half an hour before every tutorial.

Or perhaps that’s just me.

But it’s not the content with which I have a problem. Sometimes, much as I love Sayers, I do struggle with the plots: rarely will I re-read Have His Carcase, because I find the strain of muttering “He’s a haemophiliac” through gritted teeth for four-hundred pages too much for me.

But with Gaudy Night, it’s the presentation.

Gaudy Night is one of two volumes—the other being Murder Must Advertise, a perennial favourite—that I have in this particular edition: the rest of the collection has been cobbled together from secondhand books sales, so that there’s a plethora of typefaces and covers across the dozen volumes.

The Gaudy Night publication is a recent NEL reprint: they have lovely black-and-white photographic covers—although the plastic coating over the cardboard rubs away very easily, leaving them a little ragged looking—but two points count against them.

The first might be solely my problem, but the introductions by Elizabeth George add nothing to the text. Partly, it’s that I was never able to read the only Elizabeth George novel I ever started, which was For the Sake of Elena. To make it worse, I’d already seen the television adaptation, and I still couldn’t be bothered finishing the book.

(I actually quite liked the actor who played Tommy Linley, largely because I thought he was an excellent Rawdon Crawley in the BBC’s production of Vanity Fair—even though he was nothing like the big, blonde, mustachioed Rawdon that the book had led me to expect.)

But what really annoyed me about For the Sake of Elena was when Linley expressed the disappointment he had felt on learning that Jane Austen didn’t live in a thatched cottage. Why on earth would the eighth Earl of whatever he was the eighth Earl of think that Austen lived in a thatched cottage? Anglophiles who live in California might think that, but I would imagine Austen would have died of shame had she come down in the world to a thatched cottage.

But even that—should you have made it this far through this rambling post—is not what really annoys me about these editions.

No, that would be the typesetting.

I don’t know if it was done on character-recognition software from an earlier edition or what the reason is, but it’s ripe with doubled and tripled letters and punctuation marks: two commas at the end of a sub-clause, for example, or three ts in a word that should only have two.

And it drives me insane, even while I’m enjoying the plot.

So I’m tempted to do something very geeky, and read the novel with a pencil in my hand, so I can cross out the extra letter and punctuation marks, and make neat marginal corrections.

But I’m restraining myself, because I fear the next step would be inevitable.

I want to be at least seventy before I start writing complaining letters to the newspapers insisting that Coles and Woolworths change their signs to read “12 Items or Fewer.”

You have to stop showing me that model. Even my admitted weakness for fireworks and your pandering to it with an explosion in a fireworks factory isn’t enough to make up for that model.

Ever since we started watching CSI—the original—many years ago, Nick and I, along with our friends who watch the show, have kept a running informal tally of the most grotesque deaths that the programme has shown.

Grotesque, that is, in terms of the conditions in which they find the bodies, not any horror attending the circumstances of the death.

So far, I still think the two worst are the guy who died in a hot bath and the man found in a canvas bag.

CSI: Miami—in addition to being a remarkably silly show that, once Horatio Caine’s Sunglasses of Justice lost their amusement value, we stopped watching very quickly—didn’t really favour the grotesque deaths. Instead, it preferred punishing Bright Young Things for their decadent lifestyles.

CSI: New York—even with the added value that is Gary Sinise—shares this tendency towards glitterati crimes: Nick and I can now spot the intended victim as soon as we see the camera zooming in towards an expensive-looking party.

CSI: New York also showcases scientific montages that have no value whatsoever, since you never get the faintest idea what the people are doing, and tends to provide only the most spurious motives.

Recently, we’ve taken to betting each other that we can guess the ridiculous reason behind the latest murder, but we were stumped a fortnight ago, when a man starting a catering business horribly murdered his employer because the latter insisted on a meeting during the caterer’s son’s birthday party.

A convoluted motive? Sure.

Plausible? Not so much.

But CSI: New York does have grotesque bodies.

And that brings me back to the opening point of this post.

Please, CSI: New York, I realise that you must have spent an enormous quantity of your special effects budget for this episode creating the model corpse of the unpleasant Internet entrepreneur who was killed just after the opening credits by an exploding cigar.

But please, please, please stop showing the man on-screen. We saw him explode, and we saw the corpse. And then we saw it again. And again. And again.

I’m happy to put exploding-cigar victim at the top of my grotesque-death tally board (although even as I have been typing this post, you have just upped the grotesquery stakes, thanks to introducing the concept of eyeball tattooing.)

But you have to promise that I won’t have to see him ever again.

Sometimes, less is more.

Since I wasn’t able to watch it live when it aired on the ABC last night, I’ve just been watching a recording of “The Shadow in the North”—the second of the BBC adaptations of Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockheart Mysteries—when things suddenly went very strange.

(And, at this point, a warning: I can’t discuss the strange sense of dissonance that this created without referring explicitly to specific plot events. So, if you haven’t read the book or seen the adaptation and plan to do either of those things, don’t read any further.)

As far as we can tell, the video file was corrupted but the audio file was left intact, which threw me for a good two minutes. We have had this problem with recordings before, especially during the last World Cup, where I got one game with audio but no video and one with video but no audio—both of which were frustrating to watch.

Because the problem with this was that, at first, the conjunction of the two made sense.

I’d actually lost quite a bit of the programme, as far as I could tell. It’s difficult to judge, since the adaptation is not word-for-word, but the video broke off where Sally was comforting Isabel Sullivan about her betrayal of McKinnon and came back with the death of Chaka in the alleyway; in the book, nearly fifty pages of material comes between those two events.

I thought that was odd, to begin with; the death of Chaka in the book is devastating—brilliant but phenomenally difficult to read (I’ve always disliked reading about the deaths of companion animals, anyway, which is why I don’t own a copy of Black Beauty)—and I thought it strange that it would, to all intents and purposes, be skipped over in the adaptation.

But what really threw me was the fact that it just seemed to be an arty editing choice, for the first minute or two.

To begin with, we had Sally and Isabel talking in Sally’s office, immediately after Frederick had suggested that he and Sally should cease all communication. All very neat and straightforward.

Then, with what seemed to be a break in Isabel’s voice but was actually the break in the recording, we had Isabel fretting over her betrayal, asking Sally if she’d ever loved a man to such an extent—while Sally wept over Chaka’s body.

And it made sense, at first. Because Chaka was in many ways emblematic of Sally’s fierce independence, the independence that would keep her apart from Frederick rather than allowing her to see whether they could work as equal partners. In the book, moreover, Chaka was a physical barrier between the two of them, since he didn’t care overly much for Frederick.

So the weeping over Chaka with a voiceover about betrayal and love was a plausible scene, although I did feel a little cheated that the dog, so to speak, hadn’t had his day.

Then the audio shifted to Sally’s voice, wondering if it was worse to betray the man you loved out of pride rather than fear, while the video shifted to her weeping on Frederick’s shoulder for the loss of Chaka.

And it still made sense; the voiceover still worked plausibly with the images to show Sally’s burgeoning sense that independence didn’t have to mean solitude.

But when I watched for thirty seconds more, it became apparent that this wasn’t arty direction, but rather a big disjunction between audio and video.

Still, I’m going to keep the broken file, if I can.

There’s something to be said for the beauty of a technological malfunction that actually seduces you into thinking, however briefly, that it’s art.

Scanning the magazines while in the queue at the supermarket:

ME: Famous is doing the traditional “Star without make-up.”
NICK: “Stars without make-up who haven’t been Photoshopped.”
ME: Yeah. I think it’s “Stars who have pissed us off recently,” myself.
NICK: Next thing you know it’ll be Robots Without 3D Rendering magazine. (Pause.) That would be awesome.

I’m still thoroughly enjoying this game, as are a number of other people, judging from the people who wander into Circulating Library looking for information on how to complete the fiendish Quest for Montezuma.

Well, it was fiendish when I completed it. As I noted then, we early adopters of the Montezuma quest were struggling to collect Gold Coins, frantically flipping through the packs to which we had access hoping to either steal them from under the rats’ noses or to have them miraculously pop up for us.

But we persevered and we made our Spotted Leopards, our Turquoise Masks, and our 20,000-point Montezuma’s Headdresses.

And then . . . then we noticed that Coins were suddenly available for sale in some of the markets. And, at first, we weren’t certain whether we’d overlooked that option. Had we really spent hours searching the packs when we could have bought Coins for fifty credits each?

But no—this was a new phenomenon. So we grumbled a little along “back in my day” lines, felt smug about completing the set under difficult circumstances, and got on with collecting the next set.

But then it happened again! For the Boy Genius set, you needed a high number of Mindwave Helmets: to make Time Machines and Android Irwin, and then to use those to make Tripod Seeker Drones and rocketships.

And suddenly it was the gold-coin frenzy all over again: we were searching packs and rapidly losing whatever morals we’d developed in the interests of co-operative play. One poor friend—I hope she’ll forgive me eventually, because over a period of a week I must have stolen every Mindwave Helmet she’d managed to collect.

Then, having finally completed the set by grabbing the final, elusive, pop-up card—Baron von Heisenberg—from a rat who wasn’t paying attention, I noticed the Mindwave Helmet had suddenly become available in stores. And once again, I couldn’t help but think that maybe I’d just never noticed this before. Maybe I’d been running the risk of damaging decades-old friendships when I could have been spending eighty credits a pop instead.

No—once again, the card had become readily available after I ceased to need it.

I’m not even going to go into the struggles to obtain Fountains to complete the Rat Pack set.

Yes, I am—because this is one of the frustrations of the game for me. Increasingly, the high-end cards, the ones that you cobble together out of other cards, are coming to rely on extremely rare pop-up cards: cards that you can’t buy from the markets, but have to hope will spontaneously appear for you during game play.

Take Rat Pack, the Vegas-themed set, for example. This was the most extravagant set to date: twenty-eight items, the most valuable of which were worth 50,000 and 25,000 points.

But the key card was something called “The Strip”: worth 15,000 points on its own, you made it out of the Wedding Chapel (itself made from three different cards), the Casino (ditto), and the elusive Fountain, a 4,000-point beauty of a pop-up card.

So far, so good. The chances of a Fountain popping up were fairly remote, but you might find one. Well, two: you had to vault the Fountain individually, as well as The Strip.

But wait: you need to make The Strip a further two times, because The Strip is a key component of the two highest-scoring cards, The Jackpot and Vegas, Baby! And suddenly, things became a little desperate.

Frankly, I suspect the same thing is going to happen with the Beatnik (also a 4,000-point pop-up) that you need for the Dark Roast coffee-themed collection, except that you only need two Beatniks and the highest-scoring card in that set is only 8,000 points.

I’ll commit gaming sins for 50,000 points that I wouldn’t even consider for 8,000.

But this is one of the frustrations of the game, even more irritating to me than the fact that the rat players—previously so passive, and only useful because they held packs full of cards that you could plunder without repercussions—are now able to steal from you in return. So now, half of the available fifteen spaces in your packs have to be saved for Locks, so the rats don’t steal the Codex you spent a week making or the Blender you saved up for.

That’s frustrating enough.

But if the Fountain suddenly becomes available in the markets after I begged, borrowed, and stole the four that I needed, then I’m out of here.

Okay, this time I’m preparing myself in advance. Last night’s attempt was spur of the moment—or I would have had more to say about the Serbian children’s choir who looked like they were on sabbatical from the Academy on Gallifrey—but this time I have settled myself in advance.

Well in advance, since the semi-final isn’t televised for another half an hour.

Still, this should mean that I don’t miss any song titles, as I did with Finland last night.

On the plus side, I just spoke with my mother, and she agrees that the whole point of Eurovision is people getting their kit off on-stage: as she says, either you do it on purpose, or your back-up dancer slips, grabs your clothes, and the velcro comes loose, in which case it’s funny. So, Eurovision performers, let’s see some more removable clothes!

Back in half an hour.

Right, now I’m back. I’ve had a dinner and a cigarette, and I have vodka. I think those are all the essentials for the evening.

See, we’re taking this live-blogging gig very seriously this time around.

Of course, it hasn’t started yet. Instead, I’m watching Nigella Lawson talking about how good tea makes her feel. It certainly makes her look good, but I’m still sick of her and her insistence that ten pounds of fresh raspberries are essential to the recipe.

Oh, no—now it’s the CMC Markets ad. again. Although at least time they don’t talk about “less commissions,” so I should count my blessings.

Damn! Giant rabbit buying a load of carrots. Seriously?

I’m rethinking the vodka at this point.

Ooh, that’s a different Chesterfield than the one she was sitting on last night, isn’t it? Where do they get all these sofas from.

Latvian pirates? Where? Bring them on now!

Okay, the Eurovision theme is even scarier tonight than the big-haired ’70s version last night, if that’s possible. Are those people in camouflage?

Oh dear lord! Is that a centaur? Why? Why?

And more multi-coloured people—what is it with Serbian people and face-painting?

The centaur wants me to join his poetic circus? Oh, hell no. That’s the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.

Damn—the centaur has wings. This is hands-down the strangest thing I’ve ever seen . . . hang on, more blue and red people.

What does that man have around his neck?

Seriously, what is happening here?

The same hosts as last time—although the British commentators seem to be drunker than last night. I bet you’re looking at her biography, mate! These hosts are a bit dull, though, especially after the centaur.

Whoops, now we’re in French. I have no more idea what’s happening than the British commentators do.

Oh, hang on—there really was an apple. Right.

I don’t like these postcards. Bring back the travelogues and the Moomins.

Iceland: “This is My Life.”
An Icelandic tribute band.
Oooh, tribute to 1990s electronica, apparently.
Well, it’s dynamic—if you like boy bands with only one member.
Nick: Oh, god! Where’d she come from?
He’s also strangely freaked out by the pink high heels, which seem to me to be the most interesting thing on stage.
It’s a bit derivative—which seems par for the course—but I wouldn’t be surprised if they got through.

People throwing paint on each other. Great.

Sweden: “Hero.
Another of the favourites, apparently.
Oh, dear lord, no.
What on earth has she done to herself? And why is she that colour?
Hang on, is this the one who’s a plastic-surgery addict? Has to be.
Okay, this joins Spain in my nightmares.
Nice legs, though—I guess she hasn’t had anything done to them.
I haven’t heard a note of this song, by the way—I can’t stop looking the singer. Not in a good way.

Turkey: “Crazy.” (Missed the title again. It’s too early for that.)
If there aren’t any blood packs, I’m out of here.

But in the interim, have a picture of Charlotte Perrelli wearing an oxygen mask, via Defamer.

Actually, Turkey aren’t that bad. I like his shiny jacket.
Nick tells me people are commenting on the blog: he’s going to approve the comments, since I’m too easily distracted.
Yeah, that was quite fun. And refreshingly non-surgical.

Ooh, juggler.

Ukraine: “Shady Lady.
Another favourite. We’ll see. It had better have an ice skater.
Nick: Ooh. She’s a bit of all right.
Pervert.
The dresses are getting smaller, though.
Nick’s now decided she’s a bit plastic. He shouldn’t make snap judgements when I’m live-blogging.
I’ll send him out for more vodka.
Oh, the song?
“Baby, don’t call me baby.” What?
Hang on, how did she get up there? I only stopped looking for a second.
Yep, I can see this getting through, despite the awful back-up dancers.

Now people on swings. With paint. This is weird.

Lithuania: “Nomads in the Night.”
That’s a lot of hair.
Damn. I’ve just seen the pants.
Good thing, too—there’s no distraction to be had from the song.
Nick thinks the pants are TMI. I have to agree, albeit reluctantly.
The song is awful, though—and I’m not sure he’s hitting the right notes.
Oooh, wind machine. First of the night. That’s a plus note.

I like these commentators. “If you’re nervous about leather, watch out.”

Albania: I have no chance of writing that song title down, sorry.
16 years old? That beats the 20-year-old Israeli performer.
She looks 16, too, but not in a skeevy way. I like her for that alone.
Hang on, what’s following her around? Oh, it’s her coat.
I have a feeling this is a heart-wrenching ballad, but my Albanian is a little rusty.
She’s clutching her head, though, which is a good sign for a ballad.

Ad. break! Back soon!

Shortest cigarette break ever! And I’m still waiting for the Latvian pirates.

Gymnasts. Just what I was thinking we needed.

Switzerland: “Ero Stupendo.”
Wasn’t it wonderful? Didn’t Elton John write that for a Disney film about ten years ago?
Yep, this does nothing for me, sung in Italian or not.
You can smile at me all you like, mate; it won’t change my mind.
Damn—those back-up . . what? Dancers? Anyway, their hair is terrifying.
And yet more leather pants.
Still not interested.
And are those dancers only wearing one glove each? Why?

More gymnasts.

Czech Republic: “Have Some Fun.”
A DJ with wings—kind of. That’s new.
The silver dresses, not so much.
Nick thinks this defies comment, but give me a moment.
Actually, he’s just contradicted himself: “Those are the highest skirts I’ve ever seen!” I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
I’m just getting flashes of Ab Fab: “The world’s your gynecologist.”
Why do they need the half-naked dancers when the singers are half-naked? And is the DJ actually doing anything?
Oooh, fireworks. Too little, too late, Czech Republic.
The song? No idea.

LOVE the commentators. It was impeded by too many clothes.

Belarus: “Hasta La Vista.”
Oh, please involve a Terminator. Or Sarah Conner.
Damn, it’s Wham.
Has anyone taken their kit off yet?
Wait, what are those things on the stage. No, behind the dancers.
“I’m going to miss you. Maybe.” Brilliant! I’m voting for these guys.
Are those more leather pants?
Dear lord, that woman’s definitely not in her top. Actually, are any of them?
Oh. Thank goodness for close-ups—it’s just netting. I was a bit worried there.
Nick: “Can you measure your happiness in inches at this stage? That’s the question.”

Seamstresses. Very exotic.

Latvia: “Wolves of the Sea.”
Woo! Pirates!
Fabulous! These guys might almost take my love from Azerbaijan.
Ha! This is what Eurovision should be! Nick’s even tapping his feet—although he points out that the guy on the right at the back isn’t really into it.
Damn, that’s a crappy sword.
Do a hornpipe! Go on!
Nick: “You can be more than pirates, guys! You can be camp Eurovision singers as well!”
I want that coat for the next International Talk Like a Pirate Day.
I really want them to go through—they had model sharks!

Croatia: “Romanca.”
75 Cents the rapper? What?
Damn—how old is that guy?
This is strangely Mafia, but Nick likes the robot ballerinas.
The song itself is a little dull, though—although I haven’t been addressing the songs much, so far.
Actually, the Latvian pirates should have had fireworks. Or a wind machine. Or both.
What? Oh, Croatia. Still a bit dull and slightly creepy.
Actually, it’s picking up a bit in the chorus, with the strange instrument made of multi-coloured wine glasses. And scratching on a gramophone. Haven’t seen that before.

Bulgaria: “DJ, Take Me Away.”
What’s with the DJ theme?
Oooh, break dancing. I’m a sucker for break dancing.
A turntable guitar? Cool.
Actually, this is intriguing.
Hang on, what’s happening? This singer’s sucking all the life out of it!
Wait—stockings? That’s a cheap grab for attention. And, as Nick, says, a load-bearing dress.
Damn—the turntables are on fire! What’s happening?
I have no idea if I love this or hate it—and wasn’t she wearing feathers on her head.
Too much is happening here!
Actually, I think I liked that. Bits of it, anyway.

Denmark: “All Night Long.”
Isn’t that a Lionel Richie song?
Mellow—but he is wearing a newsboy cap. That’s a disadvantage.
No, wait—this is a Lionel Richie song.
Is this the 13th country already? Wow. No wonder I can’t remember anything I’ve written so far.
“Celebrate. Good times. Come on!” Now I know I’ve heard this song before.
Nick labels this an abysmal effort—even, he adds, by Eurovision standards.
Nick has never understood Eurovision.

Damn—nurses. That’s just weird.

Georgia: “Peace Will Come.”
Oh, this performer was born blind. Now I feel guilty.
Or I will, because this is really dull so far.
What are those back-up dancers doing? And wearing? And doing?
Nick: “O-kay. They kind of look like Farscape extras.”
How’s he staying on that angle?
Nope—still dull, even with gravity-defying, bondage-inspired back-up dancers.
Oooh—costume change!
Nicely done!
Right, changed my mind—fickle thing that I am. After all, she’s the first to get her kit off.
Not that there was much to take off, for the previous performers.

Shoe shopping? These are getting stranger and more boring, at the same time.

Hungary: “Candlelight.”
Once again, I expect a white-painted woman to rise up out of that piano.
That dress has to be removable, surely?
Whoops—I think I just went into a coma, briefly. Bloody diva ballads.
Is that a candelabra? Well, it is called “Candlelight.” But the daft thing’s not lit, which kind of undercuts the point.
Nick wonders why Hungary has to take it seriously, when no-one else does.

Malta: “Vodka.”
Well, that’s apposite. I’ve just sent Nick off to fill my glass.
Is that another breastplate? We need one, now Andorra has been knocked out.
Oh—just a bustier. That’s unimaginative.
Okay, this song is making me feel like an alcoholic.
I like her boots, though.
The song itself is lively enough, but I don’t know that I want to hear it again next year.
This really is just a song about wanting to get smashed, isn’t it? Complete with strangely Fascist back-up dancers, as Nick points out.

Dear lord! Stop bending over, woman! (Although I may be speaking solely for myself.)

Cyprus: “Femme Fatale.”
Ooh, another Time Lord! That really is the fashion statement of the season, isn’t it?
That coat has to come off soon, surely.
Yep—there is goes.
And there’s the breastplate I’ve been looking for, apparently.
Nick’s kicking himself—he’s missed both costume changes this evening.
Oh, okay. What’s happening?
Nick’s right—this is too Freudian for me.
I have no idea what that was about.

Oh, thank goodness. Ad. break. It’s true what they say about long journeys.

It’s just occurred to me—none of us are actually watching the televised performances; we’re all blogging, or commenting, or Twittering.

Ooh, Indiana Jones!

F.Y.R. Macedonia: “Let Me Love You.”
Were those boos? [I meant people booing. It’s not a typo.]
Oh . . . wow. More vest with no shirts.
Damn. No . . . I’m not commenting on the singer’s . . . couture . . . at all.
Nick: “She keeps pointing them at the audience!”
The song itself is rather banal—except for some rhymes about “angel’s wings” and “wildest dreams.”
What is it with wings at this year’s competition?
I just wrote that as “this Yeat’s competition”. Freudian slip or vodka?

Portugal: I’m not sure what the title is. What? It’s the last song.
I’m not sure Portugal can make anything out of this, final performing slot or not.
Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if this got through—though it’s thoroughly dull.
I like the singer’s purple hair, though.
Ooh, key change. That’s Eurovision, all right.

And that’s the last one. Felt a bit flatter than last night, frankly. [Nick’s just read this bit, and added “Felt a bit flatter than last night . . . except for Macedonia.” I’ll say it again: “Pervert.”]

Oh dear, the hosts are back.

Oh, the 1956 winner. Why?

How can she be the mother and the daughter of Eurovision? Honestly, English commentator, think about your metaphors before you use them.

Did she just thank the downloaders? Ooh, the FBI won’t like that.

Damn—Charlotte Perrelli is even scarier the second time around.

Nick thinks Turkey was too competent.

Ha! Lithuania. I’d forgotten all about them until now. That’s an awesome mullet, though.

I think the commentators are right—there won’t be a cow left alive in Serbia after tonight.

I kind of hope Belarus get through—just for the rhymes.

Latvian pirates! Arrrr!

Bulgaria: I have mixed feelings about this one. But I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.

Denmark, on the other hand, I’m happy to consign to the almost rans.

Georgia—wow, that’s a giant cross she’s wearing. I didn’t notice that the first time around.

I have no idea what I’ve been saying for the past hour and a half; I hope you all realise that.

Oooh, vodka song.

Ad. break! Also, cigarette!

Bloody hell, that was a short break.

Oops. U. K. again. Still not exciting.

France have definitely gone back in time for theirs. And by “time,” I mean the late 1990s, when ’70s retro came in again. Oh, and that is absolutely blackface.

Spain is still terrifying. And I haven’t figured out what the German singers have attached to their backsides. Or why.

At least the backstage woman seems to have seen a doctor about that awful growth on her neck.

Why are they giving people apples? Why?

Ooh, envelopes. I hope they open them faster than they did last night.

Finalists:
1. Ukraine. No surprises there.
2. Croatia. What?
3. Albania. Who were they? Oh, the young girl.
4. Iceland. Are they the pink shoes ones. Yep.
5. Georgia. Ah, the costume change.
6. Denmark. Really?
7. Sweden. Oh, damn. But she’s scary!
8. LATVIA! Woo Hoo! Arrrr! “Chest of gold?” Damn, commentator, that was unsubtle.
9. Turkey. No blood packs, though.
10. Portugal. No real surprises there.

No Macedonia, then. And none of the singers in tiny little silver dresses from the country who’s name I have already forgotten.

Still, tomorrow night should be fun. I’m not live-blogging that, though.

Wow! 22 comments? I might have to go and read those now.

Example 1: “Never mind, honey, you’ll defeat the giant Cthulhu mime next time. After all, remember how long it took me to kill that two-headed ogre?”

Those are some nice lighting effects. I don’t know how they manage them.

Oh, look, Time Tots!

Are those women in national costume actually giants? They look strangely huge compared to the other people on the stage.

And now people painted blue and red. That’s odd—even for Eurovision.

Dear heavens—is that female presenter really wearing a dress slit up to the crotch with lacy bicycle pants underneath?

Montenegro: “I Love You To Eternity.”
What on earth are those back-up dancers wearing? And are they really doing the robot?
On the plus side, I’m distracted by what seems to be the repeated use of the word “booty.”

Israel: “The Fire in Your Eyes.”
Apparently, this singer’s only 20. I like his shiny silver vest, sans any kind of shirt. Oops, now he seems to have switched to English. Shame: I like the songs in foreign languages best, because I don’t have to worry about the banal lyrics.
He chose that song out of 450 songs?
What on earth did the others sound like?

Estonia: “Leto Svet.”
Wow—flags and gold bikinis before the song even starts.
On the plus side, the camp factor just went up. These guys are like 1980s Estonian Wiggles.
Is that a beetroot? Nick thinks it’s a turnip.
Where did that accordion come from?
What on earth is happening?
Actually, where did the accordion just go?
I—don’t know what to say.
Wait: a former MP and the host of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”? What?

Moldova: “A Century of Love.”
Nobody’s removed any clothes yet. I’m disappointed.
However, this woman is holding a teddy bear—is that weirder than the beetroot?
If living forever means listening to this song over and over again, count me out.
Now the trumpeter’s cuddling the teddy bear.
Wow, this is dull.
There does seem to be a wind machine, though.
Apparently, Moldova have never won. Odd, that.

San Marino: “Complice.”
Ooh, debut.
Uh oh, finger piano movements.
Nick is struggling with how 1980s Eurovision is—I wonder it’s taken him so long to notice.
What purpose does that back-up dancer serve, I wonder? And will she remove any clothes?
This is dull, too—I hope there’s a key change.

Apparently some woman in London thought the camp factor came in with Estonia, too.

Belgium: “O Julissi.”
This woman doesn’t look like an Ishtar.
Nick’s wondering why the term “hatefully twee” just popped into his head.
What are those musicians wearing on their heads? I do like the singer’s shoes, though.
I have a feeling that this song might make more sense, if I could understand it.

Oooh, ad. break. That makes things a little easier. I have no idea how I’m going to keep doing this while I’m eating dinner.

Actually, I have no idea why I started doing this—but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Dinner arrives and ad. break ends. Bad timing.

Azerbaijan: “Day After Day.”
Wow, that is high-pitched.
Oh, what on earth are those? Wings?
Actually, I like this. This is what Eurovision is supposed to be like—I’m casting my vote for Azerbaijan.
Oooh, smoke machine. And sparkly cummerbands.
And a costume change.
Oh, this is Eurovision.
Fireworks! Fabulous.
Oh, that was awesome!

Slovania: “Vrag Naj Vzame.”
I think—don’t check my spelling.
And no, Nick, Slovania is not where the Slaveen come from—although this woman is apparently a Time Lord.
Or, as Nick says, Servalan.
Cool—finally, the clothes start coming off.
Ew, but lime-green and purple dress. That’s not so good.

Norway: “Hold On Be Strong.”
Not impressing me so far. Nick’s right; it sounds like a cover—of just about anything played on B105 over the last ten years.
I guess they’ve stretched the definition of “original.”
Nope, that wasn’t the dullest yet.

Poland: “For Life.”
Smoke machine—but still not a good start.
Dear lord, I wish her luck getting that dress off. Ever.
Oh, wow: can we all say “sub-Celine Dion” in unison? It might make her stop.
If we don’t have a woman rising up out of that white grand piano, I’m going to be very disappointed.
Yep, very disappointed.

Ireland: “Irelande Douze Pointe.”
Finally! A singing turkey puppet.
Okay, Ireland are now my second favourite—they’re still behind Azerbaijan, though.
I’m wondering, though, if Ireland ever want to compete in Eurovision ever again.
Did that turkey just say “Let’s bring it home”?
I like his accent, though. And all the gold lame.
Hey, that’s booing! That’s not right. Serbians can’t be that humourless.

Andorra: “Casanova.”
Is David Tennant involved?
Oh, dear god, what is that? Even Nick’s shouted, “Cover your shame, woman!”
Oh, bloody hell—it’s a breastplate.
“Casanova—in a fairy tale I found you”: honestly. Keep your literary references straight.
This is so sub-ABBA.
And Nick and I are just waiting for the kit to come off.
Damn. Stayed more or less clothed.

Bosnia and Herzegovina: “Pokusaj.”
Again, don’t check my spelling.
Oh, what? Four brides?
And a man in a basket with a painted-on moustache?
Oh, I’m having nightmares tonight.
Hang on, she’s hanging out clothes? This is even weirder than Estonia.
Now the brides are knitting?
Seriously, what’s happening?
As Nick says, it doesn’t actually sound that bad, but the mise en scene is—nightmarish, really.
Ha! The commentator’s just said “If you close your eyes, it’s a lovely song, really.” Nick feels justified.

Armenia: “Qele, Qele.”
Still a disappointing absence of removable clothes.
Hang on, what’s happening around her knees? Oh, they’re back-up dancers. Odd.
I do like dresses made entirely out of fringes, but I’m not sure what these back-up dancers are supposed to be doing.
Ooh, fireworks.
I’m easily impressed by fireworks.
Ooh, and the first flamethrower of the night! Always a bonus.
The back-up dancers still seem superfluous.

I want travelogues. These pieces are strange.

The Netherlands: “Your Heart Belongs to Me.”
No, it doesn’t.
Oh, come one—those clothes have to be removable.
She’s pretty, but this is dull. And the dancers are superfluous, again.
If that skirt isn’t supposed to come off, why is she wearing shorts under it?
And I don’t think I’ve seen a single gold chain yet. What is this?

Finland: Whoops, I missed the title.
Oh, Lordi have a lot to answer for.
Quoth Nick: Spinal Tap is not dead.
You know, I’ve always thought that Eurovision needed more synchronised head-banging.
Ha! Wind machine is back.
Sadly, this is one of my favourites so far, such has been the overall standard.
And now fireworks!
NICK: Sadly, Elvish is based on Finnish. So this is basically an Elvish death-metal band.
Ooh, key change.
Aw, look at the fans. That’s so sweet.

I’m warming to these bitchy commentators, but I want Terry.

Romania: “Pe-o Margine De Lume.”
Damn, these titles are getting the better of me. And my wine’s going warm. Why did I start doing this?
Seriously, THAT skirt has to be removable.
Somebody start taking their clothes off, dammit!
Damn, this is dull.
Except for the lime-green-lined, leather shoulder pads—those are both kind of funky and terrifying.
Nope—the whole thing was boring beyond belief. I’m not voting for them.

I need a cigarette.

Woo hoo! Ad. break. Back soon.

Right, nictoned up. And frantically drinking my warm wine. Blame any spelling errors on that.

Actually, I need a top-up. Where’s Nick when you need him?

That Toyota Kluger ad. is the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen. Ooh, more wine. Awesome.

Weightlifters? What? Apparently, one of them’s “massive in the Balkans.” Oh, dear.

Russia: “Believe.”
One of the favourites, eh? We’ll see about that.
Oh, dear lord make it stop. Please.
I swear I’ve heard this song before.
Hang on, is that violinist kneeling? Why?
“I will let him put my fire out”? Wow, there’s that camp factor again.
Is that an ice skater? Oh, man.
Okay, I’m voting for these guys based purely on that ice skater.
And the fact that at least this singer is making a nod towards taking his clothes off.

Hang on, what are those two doing? I know this is SBS, but still.
A kissing competition? That doesn’t make it better.

Greece: “Secret Combination.”
Okay, good start—singing on top of a pole held up by your back-up dancers.
Otherwise this is totally generic.
And “secret combination” is just making me wonder what that can possibly be a euphemism for.
She didn’t really just sing “I’m easy but I’m true”, did she? Aren’t they mutually exclusive behavioural patterns? Or did I miss a word?
Damn! I missed the removable clothes while I was typing. Just my luck.
Ah! “I’m NOT easy but I’m true.” That makes more sense.

Why is a tennis player coming on stage? Does he sing?
Damn—look at the size of that tennis ball! Why?

So when do we get the votes? I want to know if my favourites are going through.

“When you throw a tennis ball into the crowd, the voting begins.” Is that traditional? I don’t remember that at previous Eurovisions.

Wow—he does sing. But not well.

Oh . . . wow. I didn’t notice the masked and leashed men in Slovenia’s entry first time around.

And if Azerbaijan don’t go through, I’m going to be very upset.

Ah, the Andorran breastplate. Aren’t Andorrans supposed to be blue?

We’d quite like Bosnia and Herzegovina to go through, as well.

Finland: butch or camp? (Not my question: some random person e-mailing the hosts.) Nick suggests “bamp,” but that’s just weird.

Ah, Russia. That ice skater tips the balance for me; it’s this year’s woman in a piano, or Turkish ballad singer with a blood-pack under his shirt.

Wow; twenty minutes to go? I’d forgotten how long the voting takes. And how random are SBS’s ad. breaks?

“Fewer commissions”, CMC Markets! “Fewer”! Not “less commissions.” Honestly, people—come to grips with countable nouns.

Hey, I kind of like this orchestra-choir-thing that’s on at the moment. Well, except for the strange arm movements. Very interesting sound: European but Eastern. But not entirely Eastern European. Oh, you know what I mean.

Except now the main singer reminds me of someone, and I can’t think who. It’s so frustrating when that happens.

Ooh, bagpipes. I love bagpipes. Even when they’re freakishly pig-shaped, as this one is.

What the hell does that woman in the pink pantsuit have around her neck?

Ew, the U. K. entry. Not as embarrassing as last year—I’m still blushing—but I don’t think I’ll be looking forward to that.

Germany doesn’t look much better mind. Girl band—and trilby hats.

France appear to have travelled back in time for their entry. And he’s wearing blackface? Not really?

Okay, Spain is now on my list of things that scare me senseless.

Serbia, on the other hand—I can’t tell if they’re trying too hard or if they figure they don’t have to try at all.

Seriously, pink-pantsuit woman—you need to have a doctor look at that. It doesn’t look healthy.

Where did the Greek contestant get that accent from? Is she American—pure Joisey—or is that via MTV?

Those red- and blue-painted people are everywhere! Run, audience members! Run while you still can!

Oh, just open the damn envelopes!

Finalists:
1: Greece. Seriously?
2: Romania. I can’t even remember them. Damn.
3: Bosnia and Herzegovina. Oh, good.
4: Finland. Woo hoo! More synchronised headbanging.
5: Russia. Ah, the ice skater. Fantastic.
6: Israel. No surprise there.
7: AZERBAIJAN! Awesome. I would have been gutted, otherwise.
8: Armenia. Who were they? Did I enjoy them? It’s all a blur, now.
9: Poland. Were they boring?
10: Norway. No, they were boring.

Damn. No turkey.

But otherwise, Nick and I did quite well, frankly.

Not impressed about Poland, Norway, and Romania. Could have done with seeing Estonia and their pop-up beetroot again.

Oh, well. That’s why you watch the semi-finals.

Damn, I’m going to have to do this all over again tomorrow, aren’t I?

Since a large number of my teaching duties have ended for the semester and I have a few clear days ahead before the assessment comes in, I decided I’d have a lovely clean house before I had to start marking.

But—and there’s always a but—since I’m not feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today, I’m looking for ways to do a bit of cleaning without having to move around too much.

I thought I’d achieve this by doing a few loads of washing, which really only requires frenetic activity every forty-five minutes or so—but then the weather greyed over.

So I settled instead on a little light organising—a phrase that always reminds me of the episode of The Goodies where they end up at the Jolly Rock Lighthouse: “I thought it said ‘a little light housekeeping!’”—and, more specifically, moving and re-shelving the 60-odd books that currently live on the bedhead.

Ever since I was woken abruptly by a hardback copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, these books have been the bane of Nick’s existence. Even my sister, whose own pile of bedside reading is only kept upright by a convenient wall, popped her head in and said, “Yep, you’re definitely going to die.”

Still, it could have been worse: The Vicar of Wakefield is not that long a book. It could have been Dickens or Tolstoy. (Well, no: it’s highly unlikely to have been Tolstoy.)

Disturbingly, though, I found I’d forgotten half the books that were up there: technically, if they’re on the bedhead, they’re supposed to be books I’m currently reading. But I’d forgotten I even owned a copy of Manon Lescaut, much less that I’d abandoned it halfway through: apparently, I don’t have a great deal of patience with sentimental, eighteenth-century French fiction.

I’d also forgotten that I owned Patricia Wrede’s Mairelon the Magician, which I don’t think I’ve even opened. I will read that, though, since I did enjoy The Enchanted Forest Chronicles and the co-authored Sorcery and Cecelia; or, The Enchanted Chocolate Pot—although, true to form, I’ve bought the second volume in the latter series and not read it, and only discovered today that there’s a third book.

On the plus side, I found Dorothy L. Sayers’s Strong Poison, which I’ve been futilely looking for on my living-room shelves for three days.

There was a Philip Pullman—one of the Sally Lockheart Mysteries—that I abandoned halfway through, because I just couldn’t cope with the battering that the heroine was taking any more. Those books are brilliant—especially if you’ve just spent three years working on penny dreadfuls—but they are hard on the nerves.

A couple of the wonderful Diana Wynne Jones’s books were stacked up there, too, one of which also had a telltale bookmark halfway through. A word of advice: if you’re trying to complete your Ph.D. thesis, stay away from Archer’s Goon. The story of a man being pursued by wizards because he owes them two thousand words just hits a little too close to home.

Then there was a mysterious pile of Victorian sensation novels, which I suspect have been sitting there for three years. I know, at least, that I intended to do a course of reading sensation novels in the early stages of the Ph.D. Then the topic shifted, as topics are wont to do, but the books stayed where they were: Wilkie Collins’s The Woman in White, Armadale, and No Name; Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s Aurora Floyd; and Mrs Henry Wood’s East Lynne—“Dead! And never called me ‘Mother’!” Or is that just the stage version?—and Lord Oakburn’s Daughters.

Still, they’re all safely rehoused now in the living room, the hallway, the spare room, and the study, along with various Anthony Trollopes, biographies of Dickens and Charlotte Bronte, and Stella Gibbons’s Cold Comfort Farm.

And it’s inspired me to once again pick up Erik Larson’s book about the Chicago World Fair of 1893 and the simultaneous predations of an urban serial killer—which means that maybe, sometime soon, Facebook will stop asking me if it’s true that I’m still reading it.

I popped in to the study to see how Nick—back On the Rain-Slick Precipice of Darkness after spending the specified forty-five minutes with me—was going with the game.

ME: Hey, honey. Are you killing mimes?
(Note: That’s not a euphemism. It’s an odd game.)
NICK: I’m trying. I’m not doing very well.
ME: You’re doing fine. Oh, you’re dying. But you’re better now. Oh—well, you were. Look, I’m just going to leave.

Sometimes the fatalities aren’t all mimes.

Nick has finally got his hands on On the Rain-Slick Precipice of Darkness—the Penny Arcade game that he has been breathlessly awaiting for months, the first episode of which was released late last night, our time.

This new acquisition first led to a conversation about time management:

NICK: I thought I’d play a bit of the game first, and then we could spend some time together.
(Anyone who has ever found themselves in a relationship with a geek has had this conversation at some point.)
ME: How about we watch something first, then you can play the game until you go to bed?
NICK: Well, it’s being released episodically, so I don’t want to run through it too quickly.
(Brief pause, while I sort this out in my head.)
ME: Hon, it really doesn’t matter whether you watch telly with me now and then play two hours of the game, or play two hours of the game and then watch telly—you’re spending the same amount of time playing.

This argument was not well received, which is why I’m sitting alone in the living room, updating my blog.

He did, I’ll admit, call me into the study to see the avatar he had created; I went slightly reluctantly, muttering “I am a devoted girlfriend,” but the avatar was kind of cute [So cute, in fact, that I’m updating this post with a link to Nick’s blog, where he’s posted his avatar picture].

On the plus side, all I can hear from the study are gales of laughter, shouts of “Oh yeah!” and “Ha ha!”, and what I would swear was “Pwned!”

It also gave me an excuse to go to Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable to look up the term “grass widow.”

I knew that in using it to describe a woman temporarily separated from her husband, I was using it accurately (ignoring, for the purposes of this argument, my unmarried state.)

I didn’t know that it originally meant an unmarried woman with a child, “grass” in this context sharing some of the connotations of “a roll in the hay.”

I also didn’t know that it came into its current use in the days of British rule in India, when women would, to quote Brewer’s, be “sent to the hills where the climate was cooler and grass still grew.”

We may only be separated by a couple of rooms, but the point remains valid.

According to an e-mail I just received from the Theses Office, theses are now no longer “examined” by thesis “examiners”—and yes, the quotation marks are theirs.

Apparently, referring to the process of examining a thesis as, well, an examination led to a couple of misconceptions: that the theses were assigned grades, for example, as in the coursework programmes; that the candidate had to be present for some form of examination; or that the assessment was “summative and adversarial”—in the words of the Graduate School website—where it is “formative and collegial”.

(As a sidenote to this, I’d hate to think that I have a “summative and adversarial” attitude towards the work I assess for undergraduate courses. Perhaps some further terminology changes are in order?)

None of those concerns have ever occurred to me, even though I’ve had one thesis “examined” and assumed up until this afternoon that the other one was currently “under examination.”

I’m unconvinced, though, that a terminology change of this nature would make any significant difference to the likelihood of making the misconceptions outlined above.

Sure, having a thesis “assessed” makes it less likely that you’d need to be present.

But how does “assessing” work imply a formative and collegial process rather than a summative and adversarial one? Or suggest that the work won’t be receiving a grade, when all your undergraduate assessment is graded?

And, really, once you’ve got to the point of submitting a thesis in pursuit of a higher degree, is a simple verb going to throw you for a loop?

I’d suggest that the only really scary term is “thesis defense”: now that’s a phrase to strike fear into the hearts of candidates everywhere.

How to take things from bad to worse:

ME: Is it getting hotter?
NICK: I think so.
ME: Maybe it’s because we’re bathing in the light of the scary television.
NICK: Well, where’s the remote?
ME: (finds remote behind me and turns off the television)
NICK: Clever!
ME: Did you just call me clever because I managed to turn the television off with the remote control?
NICK: (nods sagely)
ME: Right, that’s going on the blog.
NICK: No.
ME: Yep, it’s going on the blog. You just called me clever for finding the off button on the television remote control!
NICK: Well, there are a lot of buttons on that thing, and you’ve never shown much facility with them before . . .

As a follow-up to this incident, I’ve just put Paul Robeson’s “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” on and shouted to Nick, “He’s behind you!”

Nick, who was washing up, nearly broke a plate.

I thought it was hilarious—I’m still laughing—but Nick’s in the kitchen muttering, “Oh, very bloody funny.”

In my own defense, though, he did keep me awake with his snoring until 4 a. m.—literally: I noted the time carefully, because by that point I was thinking of the future in terms of the inevitable police reports and a verdict of justifiable homicide.

I was sure I couldn’t enjoy this programme any more, until I set down to watch an episode that—in addition to starring a remarkably well-preserved Felicity Kendall—also stars Agatha Christie and includes in the teaser the line “But why didn’t they ask . . . Heavens!”

I’m now officially stating that I couldn’t love the programme more from this point on.

I’ll probably be proved wrong again, when Steven Moffat’s episode airs the week after next.