You must not read from the book!

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been clad in a dressing gown, tripping off my nut on dihydrocodeine, and nursing a small patchwork quilt of stitches in my mouth (routine surgery, nothing that requires sympathy), but now I’m back (and temporarily thinner, whoo!) and discovering the a woozy person living off soup can do daft things on the internet.

I watched an excellent documentary with Janina Ramierez called Three books, about three important books of the Reformation, after which (my internet history tells me) I tried to purchase a nice volume of Foxe’s Book Of Martyrs, in the middle of the night. This appears to have been surprisingly (and thankfully, from my bank account’s point of view) difficult, but I apparently managed to find a sparsely-illustrated version on the Aberdeenshire Libraries website, which I then must have requested. I know this, as a couple of days ago I got a text telling me my order was waiting for me at my local library. I was quite excited to see just want I had ordered while my brain was living out-with my body, and was handed a very dusty, re-bound, re-told version. Sadly its original dates have been obscured, along with a page of previous lending stamps, but I love that ‘Fraserburgh Library’ is stamped into the binding, back in the days when people could be bothered with rebinding books.

 

I flicked through the pages in the car, and the book puffed a fine mist of what I presume were spores in my face. Possibly haunted spores. And possibly toxic. I’ve read Bleak House, and the The Tractate Middoth, both containing fine examples of mouldy books not being ace for one’s health. And this feels totally like a book that could contain a curse (mummy related or otherwise).

 

giphy

 

So, before I ended up coughing blood into a hanky like a Victorian lady, or possessed, I closed the book and took it home. I have now started reading it, but I sit in my porch with the front door open, wearing my coat. Seems a bit mad, I’ll grant you, but a shower of dust with every page turn was a tad off-putting, and apart from the postman, there’s no one to see me reading while sat on a camping chair with a crocheted blanket on my knees. Better safe than sorry. And if I do raise some malevolent spirit, it might just limit itself to the porch and not haunt the whole house, which is good in one way, but bad in that I already have long-running issues with Hermes delivery drivers. They don’t need any more excuses to leave my parcels in daft places.

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