This morning, in a Starbucks — yeah, I know, that’s lame — on Charing Cross in London, I set two books free, the Bill Bryson and Maxine Swann’s Flower Children. I loved both, but I knew it was unlikely that I would re-read them. I put notes inside, saying they were looking for good homes. I finished the ARC on the plane, then made it 100 pages into Mark Billingham’s Death Message. I’ve also read a portion of The Dud Avocado. So, of seven books — three read, one started, three untouched.
My only regret is how many books I failed to buy — the new Nick Stone, the new Simon Kernick, etc. etc. etc. This isn’t the sort of blog that does blow-by-blow reports of festivals (except when I’m officially touring), but I will say that Harrogate was extraordinary. And if, in bombing around the Internet, you find allegations that I used a Southern drawl during the UK versus US crime fiction debate, and ended with a dainty curtsey, all I can say is . . . it’s all true.