I got 66 problems but “The Bitch” aint one

Yesterday I totted up the number of unread, or part-read, books piled up in my living room. There are 66 of the bastards.

This isn’t even all of them. There’s another pile stacked on the shelf above.

I don’t work in publishing or in anything connected to the book trade. I’ve had a couple of free books because of Londonist but most of these have found their way into my home because I have had a ‘moment’ in a bookshop or through book swaps. Only two are borrowed.

I used to read more. But for the last two years my commute has been Hither Green-London Bridge. That’s only ten minutes. And sometimes I spend the time checking Twitter. I sometimes even nap. No wonder I’ve got 66 sodding books to read.

It’s time to institute a reward system. Once I’ve read five, I will allow myself to break open AL Kennedy’s Day, which I’ve had for a year but have been saving as a special treat. And that doesn’t mean five of the small ones, either:

This is possibly the only way I’ll make a start on some of the bloody massive ones, too:

I’ll just have to shut off the whining voice in my head that really wants to read Skippy Dies. And avoid bookshops.

At least there’s one book I don’t have to worry about:

Yes, I did write this post purely for the title.


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