I heard on the radio recently that people in this country are readers. I think that's good. I also know that my recent holiday was the first time in ages that I actually managed to get through more than one book in a week. In fact, it was the first time in ages that I'd managed to come to the end of a book at all. I'll discount from this the couple of times, earlier in the year, when I pretty much devoured one of the two "Timewaster Letters" books on a train journey each, as they weren't quick as text-heavy as the average novel.

The radio interview pointed out that reading isn't just about books. It can be about blogs too. I read a fair amount of text across various blogs each day as well. So maybe my thirst for reading has, in some way, been slaked by my use of the internet. But reading a real book is always going to be a pleasure for me. I hope that we continue to have real books in this increasingly electronic age. Why? Well, a book never stops working because its batteries have failed, or there's no signal.

Anyway, luddite tendencies aside, I find myself onto the second of two books I possess that have been written by people I know. The first of these, "Now That's What I Call Newspox" was completed while I was on holiday. The second one is by the author Jane Hill, and is called Grievous Angel. The mode of the narrative is, perhaps, not the sort of thing I would normally expect to spend time reading, given that it's very female-oriented and makes one too many uses of expressions relating to dampness and feelings. However, it promises to subvert this genre further, and is festooned with enough linguistic charm and vivid imagery to keep me amused.

I like reading.

I shall read this book some more on my two train journeys this evening.