I dragged myself through Wuthering Heights, a book I’ve long intended to read. It was not at all what I had thought. I thought Heathcliff would be a handsome romantic figure, i.e., dark and brooding, but in a nice way; and that the romance with Catherine would be…I don’t know…something I gave a crap about. In fact, I found all the characters and situations either odious or tiresome. Often both. The only character I cared about was Minnie the pony. I wonder what happened to Minnie, her mane tangled as willow fronds in the chill wind off the moors. Ah, Minnie. Even now I hear her whinny in the dark, the tap of her hoof on the windowpane.