with such vigilance have i watched the library catalogues for the past five days that within the hour of its first shelving i had seized philip reeve's starcross, or, the coming of the moobs! or, our adventures in the fourth dimension! : a stirring tale of british vim upon the seas os space and time, which, as some of you know, is the long-awaited sequel to larklight. the pastiche, as usual, is delightful:

"it's really an awful bore being held hostage by mad geniuses and threatened with this or that in order to make one's mother do their evil bidding. it sometimes seems as if never a week goes by without some reprobate or other pointing a revolving pistorl or a changeling-spore disseminator at me and insisting that mother share with him some ancient secret or other. it makes a chap feel hard-done-by, and inclined to ask, 'am i a boy, or a mere bargaining counter?' and there's always the worry that one day, when asked to choose between the safety of her art and the future of the solar system, she might plump for the solar system for a change..."

now, as i prepare to dive back into bed with starcross, i leave you with this exciting end of a chapter:

"how long has the tide been out?" she asked.
"about one hundred million years."
"and when does it come back in?"
"oh, every twelve hours or so."
"how very intriguing," said mother.