The Black Plague.

That was almost me.

Just imagine if, instead of impulsively moving to the UK, I'd done the sensible thing and stayed in Australia another year to build my experience points.

Ikea Marked For Death.

The journey to Ikea Brent Park by bus is merely a pain in the arse. The journey back - carrying stuff - is an utter bastard.

The chair I wanted is quite definitely not in the current range. They do have some complete shit that would be quite good except that there is no way to actually fix the back at the height you set it to. The height is set by resting it in some sort of notched arrangement which it happily pops out of if, e.g., you move your back or shoulders while sitting in it.

The bedroom furniture department was where the aesthetic life was smothered out of me. It's partly gratifying and partly a subject for despair to realise at thirty-six that the aesthetic opinions you formed at sixteen were in fact correct the first time.

So, no bed or chair. I did get three pillows and a butterfly corkscrew (which I wanted to stab myself or everyone around me with repeatedly). And a king-size quilt from the Tesco across the carpark. Which was damn cosy last night.

1. If it's not in the catalogue, it doesn't fucking exist any more and never did.
2. Don't even attempt it without a car.
3. Make damn sure you know precisely what you want. Get it and get the fuck out.
4. Don't go in the first place.

And no sooner do I get the book ...

... than Neil Gaiman wins back the rights to Miracleman from Todd McFarlane.

• Comics Journal: the suit
• Mile High Comics: Gaiman Wins; Now What?
• Slashdot coverage.

Miracleman is not out of the woods yet. But there is new hope of the story being finished before Gaiman dies. And after following it for twenty years I can see how the damn story ends.

Oh, by the way - Jeffrey Archer is still in jail.