Messing about on the river

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We’re off on a family barge holiday next week. Keen to leave the tussling for the captaincy of the vessel to my husband, son and daughter, I’m more concerned about what books to… Continue reading

Hermione’s Successful Scarf and Lucy’s Failed Top

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Knitting update! Here is the Fairisle top that featured in the last post – I had finished it, bar the ribbing around the neck. I looked at it. I thought, meh, I’m not sure… Continue reading

Crime and Pentominoes

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By some strange synchronicity, Lucy (my partner in crime here at Hard Book Habit) and I, have both ended up working night shifts for the council (albeit in different corners of the UK).… Continue reading

A Masterclass in Dealing with Noisy Neighbours by Marcel Proust

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I was given this slim volume of Marcel Proust’s Letters to the Lady Upstairs for Christmas, and have been keeping it for a rainy day. With the heatwave we’ve been experiencing I can hardly… Continue reading

Agatha Christie, a duck, and nightshift knitting

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I’m still working so much I’m not sure of my own age (I told someone I was 43, when I’m 42) and with all the heat simmering my brain until soft(er), I actually… Continue reading

We’re going to need a bigger handbag…

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My brain is currently the consistency of a lukewarm bowl of Angel Delight (and not even butterscotch, the only good flavour, but some putrid crap like strawberry). As I’m currently doing the zero… Continue reading

Would I run for new books? Hell yeah!

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An unexpected boon of getting up early on a Saturday morning to run 3 miles at my local parkrun (the very lovely Colby Gardens) is being able to pop into Narberth on my… Continue reading

#20BooksofSummer : June in Review

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One month down in my #20BooksofSummer reading challenge (hosted by Cathy at 746 Books) and – surprise, surprise, – I’m more or less on schedule! My first book was Meena Kandasamy’s When I Hit… Continue reading

Is it a Kind of Dream?

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I might miss how easy it is to score a cultural fix in the city, and the silky smooth tarmac beneath my feet, but at this time of year the countryside wins hands… Continue reading

Enid Blyton, a split lip, and the Reformation

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When I was five years old and waiting at the bus stop after school, a bigger boy called Simon (names have not been changed to protect the innocent as he was proper guilty)… Continue reading