This week I read and loved The Sandalwood Tree, a beautiful two-strand tale set in India in 1857 and 1947. It reminded me of my grandfather, so I wrote this. I’m also about 100 pages into Mice, by Gordon Reece, which I was sent for review and am ambivalent about – the narrator (a teenaged girl) has been excellently voiced, and the author has spent quite some time (too much time, IMHO) setting the scene and the characters and relationships, but it’s all just a bit implausibly dark. Will persevere, I think.
I have also picked up #2 in Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files, Full Moon (see my review of Storm Front). The Physicist is finding my copy and putting it in front of me at every opportunity.
I’m 62 books down for the year and terribly impressed with myself. It looks like I will have no trouble achieving my 75-book target and I have a decent shot at the hundred! Wow. Still not quite come to terms with that.
In non-book news, England are beating India in the cricket so the Physicist is ever so gleeful (although he’s Scottish, so I don’t know what he’s so excited about), Australia are trouncing Sri Lanka and unusually I couldn’t care less. Since the golden generation I grew up watching have all retired (apart from Ponting and Lee – how young must they have been when I started watching avidly??), I find it quite difficult to get excited about Australian cricket. Heresy, I know.
It’s sunny again in London and I was inspired to attempt something of a garden on our 3 square metre balcony – I now have little troughs with every standard kitchen herb in them edging the decking. Rather splendid. The Physicist is in shock at my domestic achievements.
Right, as I have nothing of import to say, I shall excuse myself. Good night all, I hope a wonderful weekend has been had!