I am in Beijing airport. I stupidly lost the will to leave the airport at the last minute, having had a terrible flight from Karachi, feeling nauseous and uncomfortable, and assigned to an emergency row seat. I know most people prefer these, and certainly it is nice to have space rather than a close row, or to have to tap or be tapped if a passenger wishes to leave the seat, but I don’t need much legspace and have a little array of comforts I like to stow under the seat in front instead of overhead or jammed around my seat. The nausea is inexplicable, though I have been airsick once before (again, on a very long flight, from Seoul to London), but I felt shattered getting off the plane and just walked straight to the transit instead of the transit visa line. I regretted it as I came up to the barriers to check in, but continued on my way, and since them I have ensconced myself in a corner of the business class lounge where I have read, napped and had tea. It is now dark outside, 6 in the evening locally, but still six hours to go before my flight starts boarding. And then another long flight, then a bus to the pier, then a ferry, then a taxi, and at last I’ll be there. I have arranged all other forms of transport, but must remember to ring for a taxi to meet me when I arrive on Waiheke island.
I am reading The Prestige, which is very good indeed and I anticipate following up with his other books. What was less good (and far lower brow) was the book I read, or rather skimmed, before, a romance novel by Courtney Milan. She is frequently recommended as a superb romance writer, but I wonder if a lot of this reputation is simply because she writes books that are modern, progressive and inclusive in outlook: intelligent, beautiful heroines with 36 inch waists, interracial Victorian romance with all the right words about imperialism and cultural sensitivity, adopted sons of household servants being sent to Eton through the latters’ hard work, etc. I found much of it just too anachronistic to suspend belief. This was thanks not to the wokeness but the writing: there were many Americanisms and turns of phrase that rang incorrectly so other more forgivable anachronisms were in highlight. I am spoiled by Georgette Heyer, I daresay. No one could ever claim she had much in the way of wokeness (indeed, an appalling number of heroes appear to owe their fortunes to East India Company nabobs and even Jamaican sugar plantations) or original characters, but she did give one a strong ear for what sounds appropriate to a period, even a period other than her own. Christopher Priest, on the other hand, seems to have a good ear, to my ear.
I also took the opportunity to resume listening to Serial, but I think I’ll move back to the film review instead. I am just not finding it particularly interesting, though at least it isn’t making me grumpy as the previous season, about the US soldier in Afghanistan, did.