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So, you'd think that I'd been reading lots and lots of books in the past months. I didn't really - I did get through quite a few, but nothing like my best times when it was five or six books a week. That was before the internet obviously. (And when I lived in Warrington, with a library within easy walking distance and the need to catch up on various crime novel series amongst other stuff. Or when I was an early teen with escapist tendencies.)

My attention span isn't quite up to serious literature and I did something I don't usually do - instead of starting one book and finishing it, I've got about three in various stages of being read. I find myself craving easy fodder at the moment, hence abandoning the more difficult stuff for crime. I did finish one book though and surprisingly that wasn't one of the 'easy' ones - though very short, which is why I decided to take it home with me from the library, Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach.

And now I've got lots of thoughts about it, some positive, some negative and yesterday I nearly finished a review and then it disappeared on me. That stupid Goodreads page!

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