Gieshübler!

He's a character, the best we have here, and something of an original, but above all he's all heart, and that's always the main thing.

Now pay attention and I shall explain. Back in the day (well, 1999) I was a fresh-faced first-year maths student in Cambridge, and for most of that year a couple of my best friends always called me Gieshübler. (Edinburgh people still call me Ginge, and I'm not sure I prefer it.) I only ever knew half the reason for this: Gieshübler is a character in the German novel Effi Briest, which one of the friends was reading for his course, and apparently there were some similarities between the character and myself. However, I never knew exactly what these similarities were; Gieshübler could have been a lovely man, or maybe a bit of a chancer, or perhaps a cast-iron shit.

The other day something reminded me of the Gieshübler business so I decided to buy the book and read all about it. Even if Gieshübler does turn out to be a degenerate kitten-eating serial murderer, this all happened so long ago that I won't take it to heart -- I hope. The quote at the top is the first mention of Gieshübler in the book, but that's only a couple of chapters in so there's plenty of room left for him to become a baby-stealing stalker.

The astute among you will have noticed that this means I've finally finished Middlesex. I've also read a few other things in the meantime, including books on atheism, string theory, and the Trojan war. You'll also have noticed a striking and well-established pattern: that my nicknames (the ones that people call me directly; god knows what they say when I'm not around) all seem to begin with G. This gives me hope that my next nickname will be Gangsta or The G-Man or something equally tough-sounding. Presumably this will never happen.

Christmas Tree!

Behold the mighty St. Thomas Road Christmas Tree! Isn't it beautiful? Note the lovely apple decorations, the gingerbreads, the paper chains and the pretty fairy! Who else has decorations? Bet they're not as nice as ours!

(To be honest I have had very little to do with the tree, apart from my fair share of fetching it from the shop. Housemate is entirely responsible for the rest.)

Meanwhile, cast your eyes to the right and note that there are now more links for your perusal. So:
1) Learn about life in California with Neeps In The Sun.
2) See how my absence in Edinburgh has been so lamented that they've replaced me with a sheep, in Sheep Topology.
3) Get the best of YouTube with HumeTube.

Hedgehog!

Observe the Great British Hedgehog in its natural habitat -- our back garden! Well, in true Sheffield terraced housing style, there is just one garden shared between us and our neighbours, divided only by the path between the two lawns, so technically he's snuffling around in the neighbours' half. Anyway, he showed up a couple of weeks ago to stomp around looking for dinner before hedgehogging off down the passage between the houses ... towards the road! God speed you Hedgey, noble beast, prickler of hands and bearer of ticks!

Note for the unaware: "hedgehog!" should be said as it is heard in Bob's Guide To Housework.

Meanwhile, God willing, or at least if the nation's grandmothers are too sherried-up by saturday teatime to dial in and vote for him, this post will be my last chance to complain about song-slaying junior freakshow Ray off The X-Factor. Ask no questions about why I watch the X-Factor -- the enslaved by television post will be along soon -- and just concentrate on the fact that from an array of twelve more-or-less talented hopefuls, this bizarre concoction has survived to the last three. In the words of Screen Burn, Ray is a "jigging, Brylcreemed cross between a ventriloquist's dummy and a screaming otter foetus who hits every note with a hammer". Please tune in to this week's semi-final and direct bad vibes his way. Or at least punch him in your dreams.