I really should learn not to say these things! A week after my latest, but by no means last, moan about having too many books to read, I had to kick myself. Hard.
When discussing reading with Meg Rosoff on Wednesday, we both agreed that we prefer not to pay for our books. (That’s not us you see sidling out of the shop with books in our poacher’s pockets.) What was I thinking?
So, having to – no, wanting to – read Mal Peet’s Exposure before the prize event on Thursday evening, I decided that two return trips to London was more than ample time to read it in. It was. I should have heeded the ‘more than ample’ thought, however. Minutes after arriving at Euston on the second day, I finished the book.
Then a thought struck me; what do I read now? As the slice of Jamaica cake would testify, I had eight more books in my bag. But of course, I’d read all of them. They had just come along for the ride, so to speak.
I would simply have to actually buy a book. But which one? Luckily, I had just been thinking that Son in his exile needed more Terry Pratchetts to read. So to kill two books with one purchase, I phoned him to check which books he’d not already got or even read. Thus we decided on Moving Pictures, which had somehow escaped him, and I had something to read on the way home. Home where hundreds of new books waited for me.