On Bodies and Books.

My body is revolting today, rather than being merely repellent as it usually is. I’m not sure what it’s revolting against, but it’s doing a damn good line in stiffness and twingeing on an almost global scale.

It could have something to do with sleep. I’ve mentioned before that I've been waking up between five and six hours after going to bed almost every day since the fatigue thing started – irrespective of what time I go to bed – where I always used to function happily on about 7½. Do you realise what that means? It means I’m missing two hours a day; that's two whole nights of sleep a week. Wouldn’t you revolt?

In other news:

I don’t want to keep ranting on about the lamentable literary standard of The Da Vinci Code, but honestly! Let’s sum it up:

If you like your literature to be elegant, assured, mature, and to credit the reader with sufficient intelligence to preclude the need to have a character run through the salient points of the plot a second time because the writer doesn’t trust you to have got it the first time round…

Or…

If you like your literature to be original and idiosyncratic, and to encourage a radical re-assessment of everything you thought you knew about such basics as life, the nature of reality and the semantics of communication…

… don’t read The Da Vinci Code. It’ll drive you mad.

I intend to finish this book because I’m congenitally inclined to finish whatever I start, but it’s getting harder by the day.

I wonder whether that’s what my body is revolting against.