I am teaching a second-year television genre seminar in the BBC Sherlock this semester, which has been inordinate fun, if somewhat demanding in terms of reading frantically up on television genre theory, hunting down screencaps and maniacally assembling Powerpoints. Today was "The Hounds of Baskerville", which has the distinction of being quite my favourite episode in the series, and gave me untold opportunity to burble enthusiastically about Gothic and detection and generic tension and self-conscious narrative and what have you. It would, however, have gone somewhat better without the gravel voice and hacking cough, because, yup, by way of encore to being sick three times in the last two months, I am ill again.
Words cannot express how bored I am with this. Shoot-holes-in-the-wall bored. Drama queen flounce-onto-sofa-and-sprawl-dramaticall
Bored. Very bored. So over this. (As is the cat: the coughing seems to be freaking him out, he is refraining from sleeping on my bed in a marked manner, probably because he thinks I'm barking at him). In default of a lyric soprano and a garret, which the consumptive coughing really seems to demand, bring me a new body, stat.