Although I generally find it superbly difficult to drag myself away from the countryside any time I’m not supposed to be working, I do have (as I’m sure I’ve said a million times before!) rather a soft spot for our Northern capital, having spent my university years there and a fair amount of time hob-knobbing around afterwards.
You know those books that you pick up every week, read the blurb on the back or even the first few pages but for some reason never buy? The ones you see whilst window shopping on your lunch break and are dying to get but, despite the cash jangling happily in your pocket, never do? Barbara Comyns’ novel Our Spoons Came From Woolworths was one such book for many months, attractive to me a) because of the marvellously mundane title and b) because Comyns’ name had been floating around in my head for a while thanks to knowledgeable folk in the book world, resulting in that nagging sensation that I really should get around to reading her at some point.
My new, no-pressure/goals/rules to reading for 2015 is *touch wood* on a bit of a roll. With a deluge of long-neglected classics (David Copperfield), some brand new spankeroons (Our Endless Numbered Days) and some little quirks, I smugly feel like I’m on a bit of a reading adventure at the moment and, with a little effort, still managing to expand my bookish horizons.