Along with millions of others, I was well and truly sucked into the vacuum of depression which was The Killing. Normally, I'm a butterfly viewer. I never know what's due on, but somehow, this gloomy, subtitled, humourless detective story set in a city where its always dark, usually raining and run by corrupt politicians who'd make our expenses cheats look like sweeties really got to me. All the main characters had gloomy baggage, unfulfilled dreams, and Copenhagen seemed bursting of bent types intent on doing people in. In the dark. In the rain. In ski masks. The Killing made UK crime dramas look like Carry On films.
I'd been aware of the long standing Wallander series but hadn't ever seen any. So the impact of The Killing was really unexpected. Its led to me doing what I'm beginning to think is a Bad Thing. No, nothing remotely illegal honest. Nothing questionable in the freezer. But I've started reading Scandinavian thrillers. It began with The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Very dark. But that was only at the top of the cellar steps. Since then I've trudged through several. And they do trudge, these 'tecs in a cold climate. They have diabetes, no friends, and alcoholism. And they keep coming, these names with little dots over the Os... Bib Bobsson, Stog Stigursson, Nobbi Bume... made those up.... Trouble is, they are SO well-written, even after translation. SO much better than the usual suspects like the very dreadful James Patterson who has sold 103 trillion books in Glossop alone. But tonight it stops. One last hot bath session (all my books are waffle-shaped) when I'll find out who's been knocking off myopic elk-herders, then that's it.
What then? Well somebody bought me book-form Les Miserables. That'll do nicely for a bit of light relief.