A funny thing happened on the way back from the shops...
I have been wanting to read Alan Bennett's The Uncommon Reader for a few years, and I had forgotten it until I saw it in a pile sitting on someone's garden wall. There were maybe twenty others including two Twilight books, a Stieg Larsson and a Nicholas Sparks. They had been set out for anyone
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After writing that I attempted to type some garbled nonsense about treasuring serendipitous happenings as gifts from a random but ordered universe and added some stuff about pebbles on the seashore, and then I slapped myself round the head a couple of times and deleted it, and then typed this incoherent explanation of my behaviour. You're welcome!
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