Turn that frown upside down

A day of deliveries. 

Amazon came through with its replacement of the book it had managed to damage beyond recognition a month or so ago; a bunch of VHS tapes I had had transferred onto DVD arrived, meaning I can watch Liverpool season reviews from the 90s again; and Carcanet sent through Anthony Burgess's Collected Poems, which I shall review for someone or other eventually.

Burgess pisses me off immensely. He died in 1993, yet has consistently published more every year than almost any author I know. He is and was a machine. Not enough that he was an excellent novelist, he was also a superb musician, and now it transpires he was a poet of some merit too.