I have just had a truly wonderful evening with my husband.
First we went to the vernissage of a designer aquaintance, meeting up with SuperCool Matti and wife and then enjoying the bubbly and haute couture.
Then we came home, grabbed a glass of wine and started reading our respective books.
That was three hours ago. I just finished mine.
It was, admittedly, one of those frustrating crime stories that don´t give you the clues, even extraordinarily well hidden, to work it out on your own. That annoys me. I can write a mystery without giving away any clues. What a surprise the ending will be then! In fact, I believe I can write a book starting with a murder, detouring into the intracies of sheep breeding, then coming out at the end with the grand solution and no-one will have seen it coming. That would put me amongst the crime writing greats, wouldn´t it?
DrH is still eight pages from the end of his.
So that was it. Our wonderful evening. It consisted of not much more than silently, but aggressively, reading at each other. With some wine refills.
What more do you need?
During my uni years I used to spend vast amounts of time at the Divine Smem´s house doing little more than reading. In fact, there was one day when she opened the door for me while reading her book, went and sat back down on the couch and continued. I can´t remember what the book was, but it was obviously enthralling. I sat down, pulled out my book and started reading. After about thirty minutes she looked up and said "J!"(this was pre-doc times)"When did you get here! Would you like a cuppa?"
Ahh, the good old days.