I feel a wreck

[extemporanea]

Darn it. Had a small Culinary Incident the other night, in the course of chopping spinach: misjudged and sliced a neat V-shape into my left forefinger, nearly severing the top third of the nail. Given that I was using the only actually sharp knife in the house, this was quite dramatic, shearing straight through the nail and into the flesh. Copious blood, dizzyness, nausea. Now wearing a plaster to stop me from tearing off the bit of nail hanging by a thread, and feeling (a) pained, (b) silly and (c) bloody annoyed, on account of how the plaster is playing merry hob with my typing.

The typing disability is not helping with this Gaiman/Miéville paper, which currently resembles nothing so much as a tangled ball of string. There's good stuff in there; the research I've done has all meshed interestingly, and it'll be quite a dense, layered piece of writing once I can beat it into shape. At the moment, though, everything's interconnected in this organic snarl and I can't find the end of the string with which to start writing, which has led to a repeat scenario of me batting the bloody thing around in a frustrated and desultory fashion, like an emo kitten.

Last Night I Dreamed: labyrinthine things, complete with David Bowie, which'll teach me to watch half the Bowie on YouTube just before I go to bed.