I ‘ve just finished re-reading the above. It’s Very Good.
It makes me simultaneously very happy and very sad. Very sad that Terry is dead, and I’ve read almost everything that he’s written[1], and very happy that Neil is alive and writing and that I’ve not really read much that he’s written.
I suppose I’m honour bound to go and watch the TV show now, aren’t I? Such hardship in these short lives of ours, I tell you.
[1] Although, my memory being what it is (about as watertight as British clouds), there are definitely books I could return to and it would be like reading them for the first time.
I didn’t manage to read enough during Twenty-Seventeen. Including books I re-read, books I began but didn’t finish, and books I read for the first time, I read a paltry thirty-nine books, which was still somehow more than last year. If you subtract the ones I didn’t finish (nine) I still managed more than last year. A miracle. If only I was ten again. I had plenty of time to read then. Out of school, when I should have been asleep, in school, during Maths… 