Where's my Wimsey?

I ordered my used copy of Dorothy L. Sayer's Strong Poison in June, and it still hasn't come. Amazon says it should have come to me in July, which it didn't.

And to add insult to injury, all the Wimsey books are finally available as Kindle editions now. Every blessed one of them. So I could get Strong Poison right this second for ten dollars, but I already spent money on the other one.

Better, I guess, to sit around and sulk, and read alternative books about impossibly cool English gentleman to fill the gap. Right now I've got Bulldog Drummond, a thriller that was popular enough in its day to get parodied in P.G. Wodehouse's Leave it to Psmith, and The Amateur Cracksman, a short story collection about master thief A.J. Raffles and his accomplice, going at once. It's not the same, but it's something.

Drummond is really entertaining in a fast-paced, humorous kind of way. Cracksman is well-written, but something of a disappointment thus far. I picked it up because I'd heard the concept was "Holmes and Watson robbing houses", and that's exactly what it is, but once you've said that about it you've said it all; it barely departs a single jot from that basic idea. It's also less intricate than Holmes out of necessity, because swiping things is simpler than figuring out how they were swiped, but I can see where the concept has potential. To quote G.K. Chesterton, "The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic."

Remind me to make the acquaintance of one Artemis Fowl, too. All the kids in the Shakespeare group I direct are after me to read him.