Had my usual Saturday run with my running club this morning and pulled up at four miles with a gimpy foot.  Lordy, it hurts, even after the requisite cup of a tea and a hot bath.  Gives me an excuse to lay about on a Sunday, though, which is always welcome.

I'm in today's Guardian, with a review of Rick Moody's The Omega Force.  Not a great book, though my response is more bafflement than harshness.  I wonder if Moody has really gotten over that nonsense spouted about him by the asshole Dale Peck (look it up, snicker to yourself, then wonder for good reason why you've never heard of Dale Peck).  Still, what can you do?  By coincidence, the next book I'm reviewing is the collected stories of Amy Hempel, to which Rick Moody writes the introduction.  I don't want to scoop my own review, but I'd be out buying the Amy Hempel now to beat the rush.

So, that's my day, limping home, putting my feet up, laughing myself silly at Harry Hill's TV Burp and hoping no one in the neighbouring house can tell that's what I'm watching.  How my reputation would suffer...