Philippa Gregory. Last night I stayed up way too late googling Henry VIII's possible medical complaints because, you know, they're of such pressing importance. I can't help it; I've gotten this bee in my bonnet about him and some kind of crazed genetic disease that I'm sure, with my vast medical training acquired at art school, he had. So far, I'm not finding much and even the hivemind is not convinced. Fine. I'll just set up my own crazy website and start deciphering Holbein with a magnifying glass. Like this guy did. I mean, come on, it's wordy, it must be true!
I also want to know whatever happened to the Howard family, but I haven't gotten around to googling them yet. Are they still around? And, if so, are they still as sexy as they are in these books? Because then I want to meet one or two. Even if by Tudor standards I'm a little, uh, past my prime.
In other news I think my car is done and I can't wait to have it back. I actually enjoyed not having one, since it gave me an infallible excuse to laze around at home and have other people bring me stuff, but still, I want to see my car again. I drove A's car around a bit and while, yeah, it's zippy and organized and much younger than my car, it's just not the same. I want my own sweet Saturn back with all its foibles and little quirks which hopefully, oh please gods, will not cost me any more money in the foreseeable future. And I'm not going to think about how I've spent just about as much money as my car's blue book value on repairs in the last six months. Nope, not going to think about that. Except way late at night.