Life has suddenly taken a rather dramatic turn (for the good, fret not), which means things will be slightly frenetic for a while. I'm kind of having to maintain a façade of calm while inwardly jumping up and down like a demented rabbit, squealing huzzah and pumping the air with my fist, and this is also cramping my style. As a consequence I won't have much patience for blogger-battling over the next few days, particularly on the photo front.
However, just to throw something out there, a while back (too lazy to link) there was a post in the Guardian blog about chatting up people reading books on public transport. At the time, I thought, "Interesting idea, but has ramifications." Then took a look at what I was reading (Christopher Moore's Blood-Sucking Fiends) and thought, "Perhaps not the best totty-luring material." At which point I got distracted by medieval justice and that was the end of that.
But a few days ago I sat next to an elderly man on the metro reading Le Petit Nicolas and smiling in appreciation at certain passages. And so the discussion popped up in my head again. For one thing, it seemed a bit of an unusual reading choice and for another, when I know someone has enjoyed a book I've liked, I feel like there's a potential for some kind of connection.
Of course, having been on the other side of the booker/bookee experience, and being possessed of a fairly healthy dose of reserve (I'd give it a nationality, but apparently I've always been like this) I also know that down that path lies the fear of stalkerdom and all kinds of assorted creepiness. And so the elderly man was safe from my attentions while I began to wonder about how the choice of reading material seems to say so much about a person. But that's a blog for another day.