I'm feeling light-headed tonight. Must be the new haircut. I tend to leave it until I can stand it no more and then get my money's worth at the barber's. One of the benefits of working alone is that nobody is demanding conformity of appearance. I can look like something the cat would pay the dog to drag in, and work just as effectively as if I was suited up. For the moment I look reasonably presentable from the neck up.
So anyway, I had this idea for a new bit of fiction and I have the opening just perfect. Trouble is, I don't know where it's going so it's type-read-delete over and over this evening.
That's why I have nothing important to say. Instead, I point you to some thoughtful and reasoned critiques of other people's fiction.
First, a roundup of some masters of total fabrication at Pat Nurse's place.
Then the astoundingly imaginative fiction behind the reasons for a total ban on Electrofags in Australia. Not to worry, our own State-funded fabricators will be on the case soon enough.
Truth? Who needs it?
Nobody in Government, that's for sure.
The Truth might be out there still, but I suspect it's lost, or maybe even dead by now.