Carole and I both have a couple of book shelves that are our designated “To be read…” shelves. They’re the places that books go when they are to be read. The name is very much self explanatory in this instance.
Upon those shelves, for some time, has been a Tess Gerritson book.
I haven’t read it. Carole hasn’t read it.
But every now and again, Carole picks it up and says, “I don’t think I want to read anything by Tess Gerritson” and removes it from the shelf to file away in a bag of books destined – once, and maybe again unless we have to burn all print media after the lockdown – for a charity shop.
And every time, I have to stop her and say that I read Tess Gerritson – not that quickly, obviously, as we’ve had this discussion many a time – and that I would like to read it. And we put it back on the shelf. Where it will sit and wait for the next cycle. Because it will be coming, believe you me.
I haven’t really read anything in a while. I’d started gettting back into reading on the bus on the way to and from work and in any spare time between games at work – couple of hour gaps and that sort of thing – but now there’s no work, I’m not doing that. And I’m not going to commute somewhere with the great unwashed just so I can read a book. That’s crazy talk.
I feel, though, that before this lockdown ends, I should read that Tess Gerritson. Just so that it can be removed from the shelf.
Not that I would read it and remove it. I think, for the sake of the cycle, I’d read it and tuck it back on the to be read shelves, waiting for it to be brought out again and for Carole to declare her lack of enthusiasm for the author and her oeuvre once more.
Except that the cycle will then end with me being shouted at for putting a read book back on the to be read shelf.
Although I can claim I put it back because I thought she’d want to read Tess Gerritson.
To which she will reply, “I don’t think I want to read anything by Tess Gerritson…”
And all will be right with the world.