Sleeping with the lights on...?

You will be forgiven for thinking that I am a bone-brain. No, come on, admit it. I'll never know. But the image you have of me is of a gin-swilling hedonist who does nothing but watch TV in her spare time.  I said it first. It lessens the pain. But you are only partly right. For I have most recently got back into reading.

The reading muscle is like any other muscle in the old bod. It needs to be flexed, if not given regular exercise. I have to confess that my reading muscle, unlike the rest of my finely-honed physique (Excuse me while I choke on my own spit... do you ever do that, as a matter of interest? No? Sorry I mentioned it.) yes, my reading muscle is distinctly flabby.
I have to confess that my reluctance to read is partly induced by Dearest who loves to read before he turns off the light. Can anyone explain to me how you get to sleep while the light is on? Because when he finally switches it off, he starts snoring in 0.5 nanoseconds. So reading has become a sort of bete noir.

But now it's bonsoir bete noir ( Forget the Welsh, I'm on a roll here or is it a baguette?) because I am reading again. So here is my list of must-reads: Proust, A la Recherché du Temps Perdu; Tolstoy, War and Peace followed by Joyce, Ulysses.
Asleep? Me too. Even with the light on. I am merely toying with you. Reading muscle? You need reading biceps to tackle that lot. No, I have to say my choice is far more prosaic. A few months ago I read Jane Harper's debut novel called The Dry. Set in Australia, an intriguing mystery, quite engaging. Her latest, A Force of Nature made me feel that this was one she'd written earlier, and found it under the bed. Very tame.

I always get a bit antsy when a novel receives huge acclaim. Eleanor Oliphant is  Completely Fine seems to have been universally loved.
My Glaswegian aunt had a GP who was renowned for saying she was "Fine,"even when suffering from terminal cancer. When pressed, she said that it stood for "Frustrated Irascible Neurotic and Exhausted." As an expression, subsequently, it has always made me look below the surface. Dear Eleanor Oliphant is far from fine. It is a perfect piece describing the inner world of a woman with Aspergers. You won't read that in the reviews; at least in none of those I've read. But it is indeed the case. Females with this condition are very undiagnosed. They tend to fly beneath the medical radar. This is a very charming portrayal that gives you great insight into her world. Beautifully written, it is a very gentle read with amusing social observation. And set in Glasgow. Auntie Margaret would have approved. And her GP.

I would like it recorded, however, that my reading into the small wee hours has no effect whatsoever on my bed-fellow. But miraculously, I am far more tolerant of the nasal orchestration to my right...

Amazingly, feeling fine...