There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

Yesterday was St Andrew’s Day.

This would normally mean nothing to me except that, in honor of St Andrew and his day, the church on the corner has bagpipers come play for morning processional and service. Ostensibly Scots, in full kilt regalia. It’s very cool, very ceremonial, a nice thing to look forward to, as it more or less kicks off the holiday season. And if one must kick off the holiday season with anything, kicking it off with lots of noise and screeching is eminently appropriate.

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In addition to it being St Andrew’s day, another momentous event took place yesterday morning: I taught Sunday school.

I know.

I KNOW.

When you’re done laughing, I will explain.

Come on, it isn’t THAT funny.

OK, maybe it is. But get a grip.

You done?
You sure?

Sheesh. OK. Good.

The woman who runs Sunday school is a friend of mine, and she asked me to help out. Fortunately she was out of town this week. I did practice the lesson many times, and I KNOW the story of Jonah and the whale, but even in front of a dozen children I got nervous and stumbled all over my words. I also had to take great pains to not reveal my complete empathy with Jonah; the only difference between me and Jonah is that I would have gone much farther away to sulk than on a hill right outside Nineveh, and when the plant died, I’d have stomped off in high dudgeon, perhaps even going to far as to harrumph openly at God. As far as I am concerned, Jonah acted perfectly reasonably. I mean, God wipes out cities, hell, entire nations left and right, all over the Old Testament. What’s one more?

And this might be why my friend L gently suggested sprinkling me with holy water before I went on to corrupt – er, teach – young children. But come on – I may be a reprobate but even *I* know that Episcopalians don’t use holy water (unless by “holy water”, you mean “whiskey.”)

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I have plowed through Sandman three and four, and am anxiously awaiting the next three from the library. I am planning on buying my own set – whether separate trade paperbacks or the lovely new compendium, I have not decided yet – but I do know I want to own them, and I want to give Neil Gaiman my money.

In the meantime, to satisfy my graphic novel jones, I started The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Imagine my delight when Mycroft Holmes is mentioned no more than half a dozen pages in. My first encounter with Mycroft was in the Mary Russell books, but he is a fascinating man and I am happy to get to know him better.

Is it warped that I am attracted to all these truly strange fictional characters? I mean, yeah, Neil Gaiman is hot hot hot, but really, Dream is who I lust for. I think it’s high time to compile my list of the ten sexiest fictional characters…listing Colin Firth as Darcy does NOT count, and Mr Rochester is just a freak. I seem to lean more towards the Lionel Essrog / Severus Snape / Emilio Sandoz type.

Or it might just be that I have a thing for the heroin-addict look: Tony Bourdain, the lovely and lanky Neil Gaiman, a young James Taylor, any-age Chris Smither, Laurie R. King's Sherlock Holmes, Dream (maybe even Death although she’s a little too perky for my tastes). But heck: tall, dark, look like you haven’t eaten in three weeks? Step right this way… and as I have established, if you don’t even really exist, not a problem in the least. In fact, in some cases, it might be the preferable state of affairs.