Well, I certainly seem to be these days. Much slower than I used to be, certainly. And I don't think I can blame the books I've been reading lately. It was three weeks ago today that I visited the library and borrowed three books, all by authors I like: one of Mark Billingham's crime series featuring Tom Thorne, Bernard Cornwell's The Fort and a Michael Connelly. Nothing heavy in that lot, but I am still reading the second of them, (the Cornwell) which I must say seems to be a slower read than his Sharpe series. This one is set during the American War of Independence. And I have more lined up for our next trip to France. While we are over there I tend to read nearly a book a day. In fact, if the books are slim I can get through nearly two a day. I have John Masters' trilogy Loss of Eden to read again after a gap of several years and an Elizabeth George I don't recall having read before. Then there is a Barbara Vine psychological thriller (Barbara Vine is a nom de plume of Ruth Rendell) and one of John Mortimer's books of comic short stories about Rumpole of the Bailey.
Meanwhile, it's back to the hospital this morning. (I'm scheduling this to appear while I am there.) Not on my behalf this time, but to escort my son who has broken his wrist in two places. He has to have the plaster removed today and the wrist examined before (I suspect) fresh plaster is applied.
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