Notes from the Closed Ward of St. Mungo's

Went to the new library a few days ago and came home with two music CDs and two books -- one a theologian's catalogue of saints (did you know that John of God is the patron saint both of librarians and alcoholics? Giles would wince) and Laurie R. King's Folly. Blew through Folly in six hours last night. Wow. I've never read a more compelling description of what it's like to have a panic attack, nor a less whiny portrayal of a woman scorched by depression. I'm glad I read straight through to the end, because the tension and spookiness did not let up until the last ten pages or so, and if I'd abandoned it before then I'd be sitting up in my bed all night with eyes like saucers. Or like Moody's magical eye, round and livid, wishing I could see out the back of my head, too. *shivers* So go read it. I want to read the new one, the one that's supposed to be about Allen Carmichael, though I can't remember right now what it's called.

*thinks about the skeleton*

*shivers again*