I have successfully reorganised my video shelves and sorted my infamous to be read pile. That was a fun two hours spent dodging actual writing this weekend.
The to be read pile shed about four books, and gained a nifty new shelf for “you’ve started so you must finish” books. The shelf – current contents around 8 – was my very original to be read pile, which I think illustrates the ways in which living near an Oxfam Books branch* is hazardous to your reading lists. I always think, whilst weighing up a book under the watchful gaze of the young bloke who mans the shop on Saturday afternoons, “do I want to read this someday?”. Then “do I already have this on the pile?” (The Lovely Bones is the one that often causes confusion). Then I think “well, it’s only two quid and if I have got it, or I hate it, I can always donate it back and the charity gets four quid from the one book”.
Which is how I find myself with a large selection of contemporary “grumpy feminist” fiction (the Chap’s description, on noticing me piling up some Margaret Atwood, Jeanette Winterson and Fay Weldon), and an entire unread subsection dedicated to Will Self. On Saturday I went in to buy some coffee and have a browse, and came out with three books, including The West End Horror which I suspect I already have.
*technically, an Oxfam Music but its books section is the best in the neighbourhood.