Green tea and murder

Sunday night train journeys are never a good idea. The carriages are packed to the limit, people are tired and disheartened and rude, it's dark outside, you're too tired to read, but not tired enough to sleep. The next day you can still feel it in your bones, the body heavy with sleep when the alarm goes off and no, you can't snooze it, you've got to be at the office damn it. Fortunately the beginning of the weekt got better as more caffeine entered my bloodstream, and as the weather improved outside the window. It was nice enough by the end of the afternoon to put sneakers on and jog gently downstream, along the Water of leith, looking out for birds and listening to the city, distant through the trees. I walked the last bit, enjoying the sun and the breath of spring in the air. And, enjoying the anticipation of a book, waiting for me to have a shower, make a cup of green tea and curl up in front of the gas fire for a dip into the fifties. Skinnytoes introduced me to Raymond Chandler, and I am enjoying this new discovery. These are prime detective novels, the original stuff. The man talks little, is tough on the outside and soft on the inside. The dames are beautiful, spoilt and heartless. Everyone smokes, the rich are very rich, the poor very poor. It's a world of chrome, wood and nylon, of pigskin suitcases and golden cigarette holders. His detailed descriptions situate everything perfectly, and the narrative unravels in unexpected directions. Last time I checked the dame was lying on the bed in a pool of blood, the husband had fled, and the hero was handcuffed to a chair and looking into the bloodshot eyes of an overworked, short-tempered copper. The book is calling, the green tea is mashing, time to have a moment to myself.