Fine weather for books

I think I'm better. I'm certainly better in the relative sense of the word, and I'm hoping I'm better in the absolute sense. I've been very sensible since Friday: eating well (well, aside from a cheese and onion pasty on Sunday morning), not drinking too much, sleeping vast amounts, reading reading reading.

I've just finished The Debt to Pleasure by John Lanchester, which, to be honest, was a struggle. I loved both Mr Phillips and Fragrant Harbour, so I was expecting to love this, but I didn't. I dragged myself through it, because on the whole I like to finish books, but I couldn't bring myself to care what happened.

Part of this might have been because lying next to the bed, gleaming plumply at me, was Barbara Trapido's Frankie and Stankie , sent to me by the gorgeous V. I wanted to read it as soon as it arrived but I had some notion of saving it for my holidays. But I couldn't... the challenge now is not to read it too fast. She also sent me Maps for Lost Lovers, which I didn't allow upstairs in the hope that it would make it to the shady side of a swimming pool in a few weeks' time.

But I had reckoned without our new deck chairs. They belonged to M's late mother, but since winter they have been in my shed. Yesterday we got them out and set them up. All I have ever done in our garden is garden: I feel like I've discovered a whole new way to read. If you have a blanket over your knees, it doesn't even have to be sunny. Why didn't I think of this before?

joella