I am reading, of all the things, a facsimile of the original 24 Sherlock Holmes stories that Arthur Conan Doyle published in the Strand. I've owned this edition since middle school, and for several years I reread it frequently. Since then, it's gotten dusty. But you know: I'm enjoying it quite a lot. Sherlock Holmes himself is highly irritating: pompous, self-important, condescending, etc., etc. Not my ideal man. But the portrait of 1890s London is riveting: streets, characters; sounds, smells . . . all through Watson's eyes, of course, a hint that he is a far more astute observer than either he or the squelching Sherlock chooses to admit. And Sidney Paget's original illustrations also have considerable charm, although he does occasionally have problems with his foreshortening skills.

Yesterday's fiddle gig went well, if you can call a single song a gig. This was actually more than just fiddle playing: I made my debut as a backup singer, which, for a performer who has honed her harmony-singing skills on long lonely car trips, really was rather thrilling. Harmony's old grange hall has lovely soft acoustics, and I was relieved that my voice didn't shake. One never knows when the old stage-fright neurons will reassert themselves.