I, fat robot, am not a cat and do not consume nearly enough cake.
The Hands on the Keyboard are somewhat sickly pale and humanoid. They are attached to a female individual born in the mid-eighties. From its facial cavity it speaks some form of archaic viking language, while the hands persistently try to put together functional sentences in English.
Here is a list of ten approved things, aside from books:
- Judgemental cats
- Cashew nuts
- Lapsang souchong and associated blends
- Ginger, all forms
- Space Jam
- Pockets with room for real life hands and keys
- Coloured pencils
- Bunny slippers
- Getting packages in the mail you’d forgotten you were expecting
- Less judgemental cats
I usually rate the books I read highly, and feel nice and shiny things about them. I’m sometimes afraid this means I have no ability to express criticism, but it’s most likely because I read a lot, and have been reading for a number of years, and am consequently skilled at selecting the reading material I am likely to enjoy. I don’t usually pick up books I think are bad. Except in those cases of “Gosh golly I am going to read about these sparkling vampires because I’m curious and sometimes a top 40 song is pretty catchy, after all.” (The sparkling vampires weren’t catchy. After all.)
So on a scale of 1-5, my ratings are quite rarely below 3.
In writing about why I liked a book, I try to explain what kind of liking it is (like, like or like-like, y’know, like?), which I think is more important to a review than a description of plot and characters, and I get sidetracked a bit, and fear I might inadvertedly be writing terribly insulting things , but on top of the pile of a thousand dead infant book blogs, I have decided complete subjectivity is the only real option, and yellow apples taste better than both green and red ones.