Writing Home

I'm afraid to say that has been the case with Turbulence, the latest offering from Giles Foden, the author of the Last King of Scotland, which was turned into a popular film.

I don't think it is the fault of the author - my problem is that I have been grazing on thrillers for far too long so when I pick up something more literary I find myself in deep water.

You'll be glad to hear that I am now two thirds of the way through, and looking forward to penning my review for The Oxford Times, even if it is a little late.

Another reason for not finishing the story sooner is my kleptomaniac tendency to pick up other books and start reading them instead.

They include Real England by Paul Kingsnorth, which features a chapter on the Jericho boatyard battle, Emergency by Neil Strauss, a self-help guide for modern man in the 21st century, and The Angel's Game, the latest Ruiz Zafon novel.

On one of my few recent forays out into the city centre, I wandered into the Gloucester Green market and browsed through some old books.

There's one dealer who comes over from London quite regularly, but I rarely buy anything from him because he always looks so strict when I offer him my flat-rate fiver for his collectables.

This time I spotted a rather handsome 1908 copy of E Nesbit's The Phoenix and the Carpet, in red boards with a delightful illustration in gold on the cover.

A quick check on abebooks later on revealed a comparable copy going for £128. Just as well I put it back.

I have also acquired a new edition of Kafka's Metamorphosis from Oxford University Press which I first read when I was about 10.

The story is clearly meant to be allegorical but I prefer to take it at face value.

During a trip to London at the weekend for my sister-in-law's jolly wedding, there was very little time for reading, but I did manage to bat on with another couple of chapters of Turbulence, Letters to Daniel by foreign correspondent Fergal Keane, and Writing Home, a poetry collection by Hugo Williams.