I love The Prisoner dearly but I don't care much for Thomas Disch's novelisation, which might be a follow-up or reimagining, but I can't be arsed to finish it. It's not a series you can really contain in a book. Unless you're McGoohan. I've been listening more than reading in the last few days, alternating between the new albums by British Sea Power and Portico Quartet. PQ have ditched the double bass that gave their earlier stuff backbone, but it's still a good record: it helps they've brought back the hang to colour in between the heathaze synths and minimal sax. It reminds me a little of Burial: not so much the music as the space in it. BSP's Let The Dancers Inherit The Party I'm still mulling over. The first few listens I was ready to dismiss it as a casualty of over-production: Noble's lead guitar and Abi Fry's viola-skirls lose out in the mix; there's the odd track where they seem to've regenerated into New Order, full-stop. Hit the halfway mark and it becomes so much better, moody and pensive and you wish all the album was like this. It's a slowburner but I think I dig it.
In other news I've been mentally ropy of late, enough that I've trying to arrange an appointment with my GP to see if anti-depressants or counselling might help. I went in this morning but the receptionist gave me a card with the surgery number on rather than tring to find me a place. I don't know if that's typical - haven't used the place in five years. A bit frustrating. There've been too many long grey featureless days and longer nights where nothing has happened and there's been nothing to look forward to. I haven't felt much like committing the details to DW.
I saw my first roe deer last week, in the field out back of my folks' house. I thought she was a vixen at first: that same rusty coat; but then she leapt between the the tussocks and I realised. Caught the white flash of her tail in the dusk. Later in the dark an owl (I don't think it was a tawny) screamed like a witch.