Sitting cotside with an adorable newborn is a great feeling. It’s even more rad-i-sauce awesome-iffic when the noob in question is your own daughter. She’s staring at you with eyes bigger than the rest of her head, and you’re all like dawwwwwwwww.
But then she’s asleep. You prod her a bit in the hopes that she’ll do something interesting, but all you get is a burp and the occasional kitten sounding hiccup. Boredom sets in, and you realise that this little morsel of genetic pot-luck isn’t going to do a whole lot until she’s a bit older.
So what now?
Well, I picked up a book I’ve had on the trot for a while, and remembered I had this blog thing that I used to do (newborns ANNIHILATE blogging and writing time), and here is the result. A quick review of a very groovy book (and a fantastic start to a series).
So, a twenty-one CENTURY old druid is just puttering along running his hippy store in Tempe, Arizona, when the Celtic Love God finally tracks him down and wants to kill him for his magic sword. Yep, you read that right.
I think I remember the word “romp” being used a number of times during the course of this book, and the word pretty much sums it up. There’s a lot of romping: through mythologies, the underpants of various supernatural entities, and all over the faces of his bad-guys, big and small. Eddie the Head from IRON MAIDEN’s mascot fame even makes an appearance (I’m not even kidding).
So, that pretty much ticks all my boxes (and a few others besides). How does it go as a book for general consumption? Pretty dang well, actually. There’s a couple of great themes in there (not fleeing from your fears, not sacrificing your integrity to save your own skin, etc), and the plot that starts out as a smash and bash escalates into a climactic battle with characters you can care about.
Oh, and Oberon is an Irish Wolfhound. You want to meet this dog, trust me.
I give this first instalment of the Iron Druid Chronicles four-out-of-five pissed off druids.
That’s it for now. I hear the clarion call of wailing baby-aliens, and smell the fiery brimstone of pooped nappies…