The weather outside is frightning!

According to the BBC website, the forecast for Oxford on Wednesday night is "sandstorm". I am inclined to think that this is a glitch.

Sunday night

After my whinges about last week's episode of Emma, this week's was better in that it didn't spend 20 minutes on wholly unnecessary intro, and also I have grown inured to the irritations. Jane Fairfax was Wrong, but Frank Churchill was the the acme of perfection (and of smarm) even if they chucked in unnecessary made-up plot.

After azdak put the idea into my head, I am becoming more inclined towards the idea that Frank Churchill murdered his aunt. What's this, if not laying the groundwork for assumptions of a natural death:

That she was really very ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from anything that care and medicine might not remove; but he could not be prevailed on by all his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.

One can practically hear the uncorking of the bottle marked with skull-and-bones.

I am still getting the sandstorm forecast for Oxford on Wednesday night . I am beginning to feel as if I am in a Stephen King novel, and that it is going to be an extremely localised sandstorm and that I shall be found on the doorstep on Thursday morning, my bones picked over by eldritch creatures as I reached for the keyhole.

Finally, on Friday afternoon in a dull meeting I found myself contemplating a fanfic scenario in which there was the possibility of the phrase "the smaller man". The eldritch creatures might be a mercy.