The accidental bookshelf

My cold has reached that stage where I can’t lie down without choking to death and so, deprived of sleep, I read rather feverishly (truly) from stacks both review oriented and accumulated toward that “someday when I have time.” A strange confluence of plots comes to the fore, via a review book–a graphic novel scheduled for publication in July–and a guilty-pleasures purchase-made-who-knows-when that happened to be at my bedside.  It just so happens that memoir and megalomaniacal fathers figure into both and I am shocked, just shocked, by the synchronicity.

Which is just as well that I’m stunned as today marks the fourth sunny day in a row that I am housebound and still too under the weather to care as much as I feel that I should. I’ve advanced beyond the green papered bedroom (where I can’t lie down!) and am quite pleased, in spite of everything, with the living room’s proportions and the sofa. It’s as though I’ve just arrived in this house, fully furnished.  The built in bookcases are a nice feature, too.  Who knew being sick could afford one so much delight in discovering one’s own abode?

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