Money, wine, marmite, gin, bath stuff. No books because no-one ever
buys me books. I’m not complaining though, in my teens I kept getting make up
brushes, which always felt more like a hint than a present. At least I do drink and take baths. Even
occasionally at the same time.
Anyway, now that Christmas is over I can hit the bookshops
properly myself. I’ve only dipped in and out twice quickly in the last few
weeks – bookshops in December are like Gymnasia in January, full of people who
don’t know what they’re doing there and won’t be back again for another year.
It’s amazing how many people consider books an acceptable
present even though most don’t read enough themselves to want a book, and
certainly not one chosen by somebody else.
But People Who Almost Never Read is a blog post for another
time. First I need to un-draft my post on crime fiction, which is languishing
for having too much about me and not enough analysis, but which I may post as
is anyway, because disentangling what I like from why I like it is a thankless
process.
And also, of course:
Happy New Year!
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