Quite early on Monday morning before the library is open I wander up to the third floor in pursuit of a book to read. Over the weekend I exhausted my supply of recreational reading. People say it is strange I do not personally own books. The few I do have at home fit on one shelf and were all gifts. Having already read them I keep them from loyalty but not really for use.
This morning I scan the spine titles, knowing that, as always, it won't be more than a minute or two before something suggests itself.
And I settle on the above.
I have gotten fond of Alan Bennett gradually and mildly. First from his pieces in the London Review of Books. Then with his brilliant little novel The Uncommon Reader. I know he is most famous as a playwright (and actor) but so far I have not seen that side of him. This is my chance.
(It is not that I am unaware that this play has already been released as a film, but it will be years before I see the film, if ever.)