My Kindle died a spectacular death over the weekend, which is a shame because I’m just getting back into reading. I go through phases when I’m never not reading something for months at a time, then I take hiatus (hiatuses?) that are weeks or months long when I just don’t have the attention span. I read all of GRRM’s Song of Ice and Fire last summer, mostly while sitting on my back porch with the cat. Since January, I’ve been struggling to read more than a page or two of anything at bedtime before falling asleep. (Then, during my now-frequent middle-of-the-night insomnia bouts, I’m too tired to read anything.)
A new (refurbished) Kindle is on its way, but until then, rather than reading off my phone, I’m listening to P.G. Wodehouse when I go out walking*. I’m a very latecomer (only in the last two years or so) to the world of Jeeves and Wooster (and others) (though I’d seen the show a couple of times many years ago), which had been entirely detrimental to my British comedy education. Wodehouse was an influence to an infinite number of people (including J.K. Rowling and Douglas Adams, lest you think I’m just talking about high-falutin’ folks). Hugh Laurie even credits Wodehouse for helping him out of deep depression.
If you’ve not read them, or listened to Jonathan Cecil’s readings of them, you really should. In the case of the latter, you must not mind smirking and giggling to yourself while walking down the street. But life needs more absurdity that doesn’t involve U.S. politics, right?
*(Yes, I do also own physical books. Many, in fact. I will read some of them too.)
(This short entry is brought to you by sleeping in ridiculously.)