How many new books were you given for Christmas? I was given three.
Sam Dastor, actor, is preparing to read BH’s book “Crater’s Edge” for Audible. It’s brave of Sam because he speaks neither Polish, Russian nor Persian.
Every week my sister and I bought “The Beano” and “The Dandy” which we read from end to end in total silence, most likely sucking a gobstopper – also tolerated by my mother, despite the hideous name.
The weekend Financial Times is delivered on Saturdays by either Billy or Barry. Known familiarly as the FT, it is a pink broadsheet. With what do they dye it, I wonder?
Did I know, asked the lorry driver, that old books were used as filler with the rubble to construct the M40?
The countdown to Christmas has begun, with books for presents.
The “Snail” has broken cover! Come out from under a flower pot and is now rampant! Exposed to the rigours of the market.
It’s been a “nose in a book” week. Several weeks actually. The pile of “yet to be finished” titles by the bed and on the table by the sofa was a reproach that had to be tackled: some had been started so long ago the beginning was forgotten.
Arthur Baskerville’s observations are as characterful as the people he describes. Two old persons groping their way downstairs to breakfast had me staring at myself and BH, both poignant and funny. And the reader is present again, naughtily eavesdropping in an English tea shop.
Inevitably children will climb on him, sit on his knee, stroke his beard. They will want their selfies taken with the creator of Oliver Twist, Scrooge and Tiny Tim. And the arch story-teller, the heart-twister, the master of suspense would relish this new spotlight, and the chance to introduce a new generation of readers to his dear old favourites.