Timor Mortis Conturbat, well, not me so much as Andrew

The girlfriend of the owner of Andrew’s favourite comic-book store died suddenly on the weekend – I don’t know the details yet. It briefly frightened Andrew into imagining something happening to me, and then into feeling guilty over “being selfish.” I myself don’t like to think what would happen to him on his own, but I close off that avenue with something like Jane Eyre’s response of “I must keep in good health, and not die.” I can usually reassure us both with my family medical history, which is full of octo- and nonagenarians.

On a Not-so-Grim Note

Last night I came across a recording on YouTube of Procul Harum performing “Shine On Brightly” and “In the Wee Small Hours of Sixpence,” possibly for a Christmas special. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the latter – it seems to be playing with ghost-story tropes, though the cheerful tune says it’s less M. R. James and more Ruddigore.