We’re only just emerging from crispy, dark winter and, with the permanent banishment of the TV, I don’t want to plough through great and worthy literature or feel I’ve snacked on the equivalent of a cheap burger.  The TV thing isn’t going great by the way.  Iplayer and C4oD emerge miracle-like from the PC – O happy Silent Witness – Harry even slept with someone the other week and Nikki-based clothing porn still satisfies.  Three-months-for-the-price-of-one-offer-for-the-weak-of-will lured me back to Lovefilm after months of abstinence and almost daily cinema visits.  So to books;

Meg Rosoff.  Teen fiction apparently.  Some of the most breathtakingly, apparently effortless writing I have come across.  She is fairly unflinching in her subject matter but never out to shock.  Memories and feelings from childhood are summoned from long forgotten neural pathways.  Much admiration for the woman.  I’ve just finished What I was.  Whispers of The Wasp Factory.

Advertisements