I am so happy to say that I am writing this back in my beloved bookshop after far too long an absence. I hope you have all been well, that you are not on your knees with home-schooling, that you are still on speaking terms with those you live with and, most importantly, that you have had enough books to keep your spirits high.
I am still on speaking terms with my cats, one of which has even become my yoga buddy (I think that is the term…) I was on furlough for two months and it was a lovely, dreamy time full of sea walks, bluebells and bird watching whilst guiltily aware that others’ stress levels had doubled as had their work load.
Hence my re-emergence from lockdown as some sort of Greek goddess, all bronze and silvery locks! However, I didn’t read as much as one might think and classics were my comfort reads for that time. But now I am very excited about all the new books appearing and feverishly working through proofs so that I can share my favourites with you. Next time, I will have my summer reading selection but meanwhile these are the best so far…
Writers and Lovers, Lily King – My friend, M, was so affected by this book that she couldn’t get on her yoga mat for some time afterwards. It is a moving, funny and real story about writers and lovers – and life.
Mr Loverman, Bernadine Evaristo – an earlier book by the Booker winner displaying the same warm heart and dexterity of language. This is the love story of Barry, 74, married, father to 2 daughters and, for the past 6o years, in a secret relationship with his best friend Morris. The Monday book group loved it!
The Eighth Life, Nino Haratishchvili – this was my read of lockdown – a gorgeous epic, sweeping story of a Georgian family starting after the Russian Revolution and following the female characters up to the present day.
Starve Acre, Andrew Michael Hurley – an absolutely gripping story that explores grief within the chilling scope of horror.
Night Boat to Tangier, Kevin Barry – I finished this on the way in and Barry’s distinctive writing is still echoing in my ears. Almost Beckettian in this story of waiting men.