I stayed up til some ridiculous hour last night finishing The Girl Who Played With Fire, which is the second book in the Lisbeth Salander threesome.
This book could also be called “in which a girl is buried alive and drags herself out of the grave like some craven beast from hell.”
It’s pretty gruesome, to be honest. But I loved it. The plot is incredibally twisted, and although some things weren’t tied up quite as nicely as I would have liked, at least I have the last book to look forward to. Anyone want to loan me a copy? (Still horrified at the price of novels in NZ).
In other news, today I am heading to the SPCA to start volunteering. This could either be wonderful or horrendous. The fact that I adore cats is going to be both a blessing and a hindrance. I will want to save all of them. And I am not allowing myself to bring even one home. (Famous last words). So the idea is that I will try to care without being too involved. An emotional experiment of the feline persuasion.
Warning: I will try to sell you cats.