I’ve read some great books recently: Big Machine was a crazy visit out to San Francisco, with bizarre people and even stranger happenings; Journey to the River Sea was an exotic amble upstream to unknown jungles and ancient cities; Ape House was an invitation to meet with bonobos and enjoy some classic pulp adventure along the way.

But, the last couple weeks I’ve been in a reading rut. I’m easily distracted and it’s just so much easier to play on Instagram, or flick through a magazine, rather than properly focus on a book. It’s like grabbing a chocolate bar, instead of baking that blueberry buckle cake, even knowing the latter would taste better.

And it’s not for lack of a good read. I’ve got Neil Gaiman’s Stardust on the go at the moment. He imagines the most fabulous worlds and writes the most perfect sentences. There’s really no reason I shouldn’t be diving in, with no regard for distraction.

But first I’m going to go bake that cake.

Yearly traditions have a lovely way of just sort of ‘happening’ and some books find their way in to my hands every year. Stillmeadow Seasons is one such book. I always jump straight to the winter chapters and relive the familiar everyday tellings of Gladys Taber’s life in rural 1940s New England. My Grama first read these chapters to me and her voice often pops in to my head, reading scenes of snow so thick you can’t reach the post box, presents chosen from the few shops in the small town, and homemade candy in ribbons of tissue paper. Like me, Taber loves the promise of one particular shape of package under the tree:

Books were the best gift Santa could bring, and all of my Christmas memories are bound up with books. Other presents were wonderful enough, but that flat rectangular package under the tree- ah, there is the closest thing we know of pure happiness and all tied up in a holly ribbon. A bottle of French scent may be lovely for a time, but all the perfumes of Araby may be between the covers of a book, forever fresh.

I hope that your winter days are filled with fun, food, and love. And maybe the odd new book. Merry Christmas.
Xx

Please excuse my absence. I’ve had my head stuck in a book. Quincunx has demanded all my attention, if I am ever to get through its 1200 pages. For such a mighty tome, it rips along at a rollicking pace and is a Dickensian adventure of the very best kind. Family intrigue, murderous plots and duplicitous ‘indiwiddles’ abound.

There’s no way I would have considered reading a book of this size if it wasn’t for Scott and his social reading challenge. I’m a sucker for a target and a bit of peer pressure, especially as Tom has been reading it too. So, despite my slow reading pace, I’ve kept up and been swept along on the many fateful turns that John’s life takes.

Tom and I have spent most evenings tangled on the couch (which is, strictly speaking, just too small for two) reading our matching pages in silence, or talking over who has betrayed who, and trying to interpret the various lineage and family feuds. This is a great read to chew on by the fire, with a double helping of tea and toast, as you hear tell of John’s increasing states of peril and starvation. Few books have made me appreciate food quite so much!

So, please excuse me while I go ahead and read the next 400 pages..