Arty Farty, Me?

I have just discovered that I'm not very arty at all.

By chance I happen to have been stacking books I've finished reading in a pile on my desk and when I went to shove them all haphazardly back in the bookcases this morning I discovered that the last 8 books I've read are as follows:

A Celebration of 'The Good Life' - Richard Webber
'Close' - Martina Cole
'Making Money' - Terry Pratchett
'Chicken' - David Sterry
'Timeslip' novelisation
'Dusted' - Buffy Episode Guide
'Hollywood Vampire' - Angel Episode Guide
'Still Getting Away with It' - Nick Courntey

So that's one novel about a male hustler; four books with a link to 70s sitcom or Joss Whedon; one Doctor Who actor autobiography; a Terry Pratchett and a Martina Cole Gangster Bitch novel I pinched off Julie or my mum.

Sadly for my credentials as an interlekshull I probably enjoyed the Martina Cole book most of the three novels - I have a soft spot for the sheer effortlessness involved in reading them, especially after you've read a few. They're not always brilliantly written (but that's not the end of the world since many far cooler books I've read this year have just as many clunky sections) and they all have much the same plot but a Martina Cole book is guaranteed to batter along like a right old bastard, which is exactly what you want sometimes.

Ah, who wants to be arty anyway - read anything you can get your hands on, I say. And bugger those people who say they haven't got enough time even to read the great books which are out there, as though a diet exclusively of the brilliant is the only thing worth aspiring to.