Okay, so, amid my holiday blur of sunburn, Portugese islands, crumbling townhouses and reading due to sisterly hatred, It dawned on me...

Oh, SHIT! I was meant to upload all of those pictures!

Bugger. Sorry, everyone. I mean, sorry to the one person who might read this in about a month's time and go "who is this person? Is she one of my favourites? My precious favourites? *deletes lemon from deviantwatch*" So, that's that really.

I've read quite a few books in the week since I've been here:
About A Boy (Nick Hornby)
Ghost Girl (Helena McEwen)
Moab Is My Washpot (Stephen Fry)

And now I'm on to Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell). I feel so special reading it -- its that good. Also, Stephen Fry's autobiography is literary cake; the really nice kind of cake (seriosuly, juts imagine your perfect cake, baked and decorated to the absolute pinnacle of cakeliness: that is this book.) If you dont like cake, you must be a filthy homophobe. *spits in disgust*

Haha, just like Twilight is literary heroin. (No, Gorne, shut up NOW.)

So, anyway, I am obviously, not too close to my beloved computer and scanner, so you'll all have to wait, I'm afraid. Sorry, cats, that's just the way I roll...(where did I steal that from...?)

Have fun! <3