Pushers

I have been accused of having a problem with book-buying. However, I realised this morning that those individuals who make such claims are those who take me to bookshops. The Well of Lost Blogs, Newton Heath 18 and The Kerrywoman are the guilty parties. They suggest or even invite me to visit bookshops, then look on, shaking their heads as I strip the shelves and erode my debit card.

This weekend was a case in point. Off I tripped to see The Kerrywoman, planning solely to drink mulled wine for hours. Which we did, but first we toured a fine ceramics museum (faintly surreal given the pantomime characters rushing around to get from one side of the stage to the other), ate a magnificent afternoon tea, visited a brilliant independent bookshop, then drank champagne and mulled wine for many, many hours. Books were discussed, crosswords were done, papers were read, soup was made and music was listened to. All in all, a perfect weekend.

With what books did I end up? Two borrowed Edith Wharton's, on The Kerrywoman's recommendation. Max Frei's The Stranger, which looks like odd Russian SF; Gelder's Popular Fiction: the Logics and Practices of a Literary Field; Christina Rosetti's Selected Poems, Lord Raingo by Arnold Bennett and Leonora by the same author. I'll have time to read them when I retire.