So I spent the weekend in Paris with m'lady. We had fun, stayed at a lovely little hotel in the Latin Quarter (that's latin as in dead language, not crappy Bacardi ads), did lots of clichéd tourist stuff and thoroughly enjoyed it, spent hours wandering around the city, got accosted by tourist trappers, practiced pidgin French, took far too many photos, and achieved a most respectable Moquito/hour rating. T'other perspective here - I'd like to go back when it's less oppressively hot some time and spend a bit more time rooting about.

Oh and I read the Subtle Knife. And I'm suddenly glad I left it this long to read it, because if I didn't have the third volume in the trilogy instantly accessible I'd have bitten off my own leg. Pullman: keep writing, you horribly talented bastard.