Hello dear readers,
Well, my desire to write Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and ‘new Stieg Larsson manuscript found’ in every blog post to attract search engine traffic has certainly touched a nerve. One associate termed it misleading and unethical; another took offence to my not understanding the author's genius and popular appeal. Each to their own. You can't please everyone.
No doubt entitling this post Stieg Larsson alive? will prompt do-gooders to accuse me of scraping the bottom of the morality bucket. But frankly, I desperately need new readers and he's not likely to either mind or pursue litigation. Besides, the world runs on suspect conjecture. And it's not like I've accepted blood diamonds from Charles Taylor.
Speaking of ethics, you would think responsible workmen would be keen to finish a job, especially when it involves a missing half of a roof and rainy weather. But no, I am still living under plastic. They failed to leave a contact number, the Louse of the House (aka my landlord) has disappeared and my Google search for ‘shifty old roofers’ has come to naught.
Beyond this, The Independent – that bastion of free expression – has excluded my comments from appearing on a recent article about the rapid rise in commodity prices. I made the erudite point that an increase in feed stock will result in higher prices for meat, which as a semi-vegetarian (who still eats seafood and admittedly bacon on Saturday mornings), I view as a positive outcome of the whole palaver, as people won't consume as many animals.
The expected rise in food prices is worrying and simply adds to the atmosphere of economic misery pervading most of the nation. Many readers laughed when I stocked up on large quantities of rice and tinned goods during the brief Ash Cloud uncertainty. Well, when food prices go through the roof due to these wild fires in Russia and the Ukraine, I shall be enjoying my reasonably priced wares with a satisfied smirk on my lips.
Of course my lips would be happier if Madeline would return even one phone call or email. But I shall not dwell.
Finally, I have had a return of the death worries that drove so many readers away from my blog not long ago. As I rapidly approach my 48th birthday, I have become aware of how much I've outlived so many of my fellow scribes:
Virginia Wolfe, dead at 39
Franz Kafka, dead at 41
Chekhov, dead at 44
Robert Louis Stevenson, also dead at 44
Lord Byron, flung from this mortal coil at 36
Robbie Burns, planted at 37
And though I haven't outlived him yet, Stieg Larsson, reduced to ash at 50
Or is he still alive and living in Norwich?
The list of dead writers goes on. Sober reading.
Right, I'm off for a quick wank.