Storyteller's World

At last the monstrous eyesore in the back garden, the hideous blot upon the landscape, the great wen of Marston, AKA the shed the builders put up to contain the overflow from the house during their depredations, is almost cleared. The Archangel Michael who watched over it has been taken down, the cardboard boxes full of books have been emptied and the books carried back by armfuls into the house. Only the box of old vinyl records, and the about-to-be-knackered (as they say at the vicarage) carpet, remain.

And here I face again one of life's depressing mysteries. No matter that I have thrown away (or, put aside for throwing away) more books than mortal spirit can bear. There still seem to be more books going back in, than came out in the first place. How can this be? Books I have never read, and never will read. (Until, that is, a week or so after they've been chucked, when they will suddenly become indispensable must-reads.) Books I read once but can't remember why, and am pretty darn sure I'll never want to read again. Books that are Alison's and pass (this) man's understanding why anyone would want to read them in the first place, but it would be more than my life was worth to make an executive decision on putting them aside for disposal ...

George Meredith's The Egoist? I don't think so. Damon Runyon? Well, you know, I just might want to read them again. (Index of un-highbrow-ness, here.)

Well, maybe I exaggerate slightly. On further inspection I might just have cleared half a shelf. But unless I disguise the fact, Alison is quite capable of colonising it with her books before I manage to very naturally and properly enhance it with mine.