Reading. It’s ace right? Never a chore to sit with a book. (Except, hmmm, when it is a chore. Which would be, say, when reading up for work or a course or something.) I adore reading. Of course. However right now, I just can’t find anything that I want to read at all.
This is ultra bizarre. Unheard of in my life. I don’t even want to read the paper. Sheez.
A few weeks ago I wandered around work and saw a few books I thought looked intriguing, I ordered them from the library and was delighted to be the first person to get one of them. Lovely, pristine book. On opening it though I just slid right off the page. I tried several times, but nothing stuck. No interest.
Same with the second book.
I turned to the pile beside my bed. Nope. Don’t care.
I was given a damaged copy of Charlie Brooker’s “Screen burn”, surely those bite size witty, vicious telly reviews would suit my scattered mind. Hmmm. No.
Actually, the only thing I fancy reading right now (as in this very moment) is an Elvis biography. The definitive bio, whichever that may be. ( Possibly, it is the trilogy by Peter Guralnick, but I don’t think I care to wade through so many words. Give me the juice, the dirt, the sorrow, and make it snappy please.)