E. M. Esq.

Lost is back on tonight, which is good times for all concerned, and with any luck I’ll be seeing Iron Man on Wednesday. Nordiebuddies will be around come week’s end and there’s a bank holiday to look forward to. And to occupy every other waking hour, there is Grand Theft Auto IV.

I don’t know if it’ll slow down the blogging – after all, eight hours in work don’t fill themselves – but there’s a significant chance it will take over the output. I’ll try to avoid it, sure, I’ll try to be interesting, but I can’t guarantee it. I don’t know… somewhere in the code of a GTA game there’s a sequence of numbers that sinks into your brain, takes over your neural pathways and leaves you unable to talk or think about anything else until you’ve slogged your way through*.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. The release of the last GTA game heralded a month-long era of universal brotherhood, where you could approach practically any stranger on the street and, with a simple enquiry (“So, what mission are you on?”), form a lifelong bond. It was rather beautiful.

This is me out for the moment, then. I’m off home to freeze myself until I can come back into town and buy the game. Gentlemen: see you on the other side.

*The affliction seems to have some tie to the Y chromosome, which is fortunate since it leaves roughly half the population functioning well enough to keep things ticking over.