I haven't quite finished Dermot Healy's A Goat's Song. I'm not even a third of the way into Lionel Shriver's So Much for That - the problem with the latter, thus far, is that it contains soooo much information on the US healthcare system; I've decided it is the one reason I could never live over there. It's shockingly profiteering and conniving and terribly difficult to work out with reams of forms having to be completed by sick people. However, I went into my local bookshop, Kew Books, today - they are so good - and I was recommended Jon McGregor's 'Even the Dogs', about a group of addicts in Nottingham. So I'm starting on that. I've also ordered Aifric Campbell's The Loss Adjustor. Tomorow I'm off to Richmond Theatre to watch a friend act in Agatha Christie's 'The Verdict'. More anon. I shall also have to find something to do, somewhere to be on Friday. Half of the street I live in has come together in an act of mass hysteria regarinding a certain wedding. The bunting is already up. I'm thinking of ordering a load of sick bags and sticking around to hand them out, probably because it reminds me too much of 1981.

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