Suddenly, I feel old with the weight of all the unread books in the world.
I have just finished Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns and Alexander McCall Smith's Tears of the Giraffe and 44, Scotland Street. And somehow, these three books have managed to give a new life to my waning reading habits. Admittedly, I was still doing an occasional Georgette Heyer or Agatha Christie (because old habits die hard and I don't think I could ever stop reading!)
But since my mother came and brought me Srividya Natarajan's No Onions nor Garlic, and for some inexplicable reason, Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul, I have rediscovered how many books I have left unread, and most important among them, are Alexander McCall Smith's books, which I have completely fallen in love with.
I will have an obscure second hand bookstore in London to thank for that.
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