Ngaio Marsh’s Died in the Wool is an intelligent novel, with deep characters, thought-provoking subplots, and snappy, if dated dialogue. Kruger’s Died in the Wool is none of those things. It is a harmless, pleasant read while knitting, and it accompanied me through the completed collar of Brooklyn, here looking like some denizen of the deep. There hasn’t been much actual knitting in this book so far, though there has been some of the same yarn fetishism I have noticed in other books of the  “Ooh, knitting’s in style, I’ll make my detective a knitter!” genre.

Are you wondering about yarn fetishes? Look here. Actually, although I did google the term “yarn fetish” in case this was some sort of actual mental condition about which I should not make jokes, I only found knitters bragging about their stashes. I did once, while preparing for a workshop on insects for elementary school teachers, learn rather more than I wanted to know about insect fetishes, and yarn seems a more plausible perversion than that. But I see that I have become distracted here. I was talking about books. And now I have to tell you that the book I learned about insect fetishes from is called Sex, Bugs, and Rock and Roll. It is perhaps the most entertaining book on insects I have ever read, and includes a piece on Weird Al Yancovik. This is the only occasion on which I have read about this person, except at the blog of Scriveling. I am not prepared to draw any conclusions.

#1 daughter is reading River Out of Eden (our read-along merely requires the reading of something by Richard Dawkins — I’m going to move on to Unweaving the Rainbow pretty soon here, but I have some light reading to do first) and getting creeped out by how closely related all of us humans are. She doesn’t like the idea that she and her husband are all but cousins. Since we have found no hint of shared ancestry (or indeed, shared geography) any time in the last four centuries, I am not troubled by this, but I know what she means. I once took a group of kids to a water treatment facility, where they assured us that there had been no new water on the earth since the dinosaurs drank it. In the silence that followed, I knew we were all realizing that in some far-fetched way, this meant we were all drinking purified dinosaur urine.

Even though we understood their point completely, I could not help but notice that no one chose to drink any water for the rest of the day. There has some notions that just make you uncomfortable on a visceral level, no matter what your brain may say about them.

I am trying to get Brooklyn sewn up before I leave for work, but not having high expectations for success.