I studied English Literature at uni – lots of books, lots of reading. I did pretty well at it. And yet, sitting on the side of the bath the other morning, brushing my teeth and struggling to shake off a thick fog of tiredness I thought: ‘I’m not sure I’m actually all that good at reading’.
Because you see, since Christmas, I’ve been trying to read Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. I’ve made it to page 438 out of 650. The Daily Mail calls it ‘Dizzyingly, dazzlingly good’.
But if I’m honest, 438 pages in and I just wasn’t feeling dazzled. Granted there’d been sections that had really captured me, but past the half way point and ploughing on was beginning to feel like a struggle.
Tipping point for me was the evening I took the book in the bath with me. I read a couple of pages, tossed the book onto the floor and made a start on shaving my legs. And then it hit me. I hadn’t the slightest idea what I’d just read about. Not a clue. Continue reading