Some books really should be burned

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Here’s a rare blog post. Right, that’s the first point. The second is that some books really should, actually, be burned. Really, that’s probably ok. You know how it is: you are about to spend an hour on a train and you realise that your forgot to bring a book (we don’t have any truck with these kindles), you pop into the nearest bargain bookshop to get something that will “do the job” for the journey, you see something that is female-authored and promises – or so it seemed on a quick glance – to explore female sensuality and sexuality. There’s also something about perfume that’s likely metaphorical. That’s probably worth a quid, you think.

Fifteen minutes into your train journey you realise that you may well have bought the very worst book ever written (and you’ve read Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey, for crying out loud) and a terrible fate – that of a train journey without a book – is now before you. You know this because if there is one thing that is for certain, it is that you will never be opening that book ever, ever again. I WOULD RATHER NEVER READ AGAIN, you shout. Inwardly. As the gods would have it, you have only 8% battery left on your phone. You sigh for what else can you do.

It was a long 45 minutes after that but it was a lesson learnt. I’ve taken a picture of the prologue so that you can share my pain. But know that I had about 25 pages of more of the same. *shudder*