We have a new library van; it trundles up every two weeks for those poor souls too whatever to make the six miles into town [main library]. After many years of grumbling the library folk have extracted a digit and mixed the books around a bit, plus some new ones, so I came away with six to defend me from myself.
Picked up the newish David Peace about Brian Clough, first one to get it out - not surprising as most clambering onto the van are even older and greyer than me.
I picked half a dozen books, probably mostly rubbish.......now that's not a nice thing to say about words that some poor tortured mind has bled over. I would love to write a novel, but when I have read a really good one, polished off in a few days and go on to the next it hardly seems respectful to the author. At least my stitchings hang around longer - literally.
I am reading a brilliant one today, Denise Mina's "Still Midnight" I wasn't convinced at first [I have avoided her previous ones as too miserable] - but this one is very well observed and gathers speed as it goes. Even a smile now and then.
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