I have a library full of books. I call it my library. I like that. Most of them I haven’t read, but I love them all. They’re all great books. I want to read each and every one, otherwise I wouldn’t have bought them. I mean, I’m not pretentious.
Most are from secondhand bookshops, boot fairs and ebay, and boy, do they smell good. Leather bound early editions of Don Quixote, Gil Blas, the works of Edgar Allan Poe, the Waverley novels, Rudyard Kipling, George Bernard Shaw . . . They look good and they feel good too, but it’s the smell I really like. I want to read them. I know I should read them. The trouble is I just don’t seem to have the time.
It’s taken me six long years to finish Discoverie. Early mornings, late nights, weekends and holidays. I told myself that the library could wait. Once the book was done, I’d take a break, settle back, and indulge my nose. (And what a nose! You’ve got to see it to believe it.)
It’s been two months now since I wrote the last word, and yet I still haven’t started, what with work, keeping up with Brexit, episodes of Breaking Bad, Six Nations rugby and the bridge classes she signed us both up for — against my express instructions. It didn’t help that she gave me the complete set of the Game of Thrones books for my birthday last year. Seven volumes, five thousand pages . . . and in paperback! The library will have to wait.
I’m willing to read. I’m wanting to read. I’m waiting to read.
And one of these days I will.