As a distraction from contemplating Thursday's inevitable and awful strike, I have been trawling the local charity shop for crime novels. There seem to be rather a large number of lurking men around the shelves at the moment looking as much at the women looking for books as at the titles themselves!
Is this the new supermarket pick-up etiquette?
I picked up a Peter James novel (on the recommendation of Andy Cairns) and a thumpingly-heavy Ruth Rendell. They will both return whence they came in a day or two.
I find these books a welcome sandwich between the dense academic texts that I read, books that are much more interesting really but which take a long time to digest.
Sometimes you feel like a slice of thick, squidgy, unhealthy pre-sliced white bread, and sometimes there's a case for brown wholemeal bricks that you have to saw through for half an hour to get a frail and crumbling slice that collapses before you can get it to the toaster!