A gratifying number of fellow ranters chimed in after my previous post. Many thanks. Not only is it encouraging to know people actually read this stuff, it is also comforting to learn that I’m not alone in being driven nuts by little (but important) things.
If you’re still in the mood for things in this vein I commend to you Rod Liddle’s recent Spectator blog post on Fatuous Phrases. Laughter is a great healer.
I’ve had a recent spate of questions about novels I wrote long ago. This is good and welcome because it means people are reading my books, but not so good when it obliges me to re-read my own work. I hate doing it because a) I find myself thinking ‘whaaaat?’ Please God, tell me I didn’t write that. I was off sick that day. A big boy did it and ran away. And b) I have so many things I want to read I resent time spent sifting through my own books.
Currently stacked on the floor bedside my bed:
The Hunting Gene by Robin Page
The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers
Alphabetical by Michael Rosen
Dancing to the Precipice by Caroline Moorhead
and Oliver Ready’s new translation of Crime and Punishment.
I won’t even mention all the unread books on my Kindle. And to think I just wasted five minutes of my life reading the Lidl Christmas catalogue.
Gosh, look at that. A Liddle and a Lidl in the same post. Spooky.