I'm terrible with books, really I am. When I pick one up I have a really hard time putting it down again to get the lunch/tea/groceries etc. It's surprising how quickly the apartment gets messy and the kitchen full of dirty dishes and used pots and pans. Yesterday evening, even though I had only got to about page 900, I had to drag myself into the kitchen and clear it up - then make tea - then clear that up - then make some muffins - then clear that up. Otherwise poor DH wouldn't have been fed.
The culprit is Rosamunde Pilcher's "Coming Home", all 1016 pages of it. It follows two Cornish families and their many friends through WWII, across the world and back home again, with lives and loves lost and found. Rosamunde Pilcher has such a gentle, matter-of-fact way of telling a huge, many-layered story that I just have to read on and on.
I should finish it today, then it will be business as usual. And DH will get salmon tonight, hopefully prepared with some imagination. I'm trying not to think of the last two Twilight books sitting on the shelf since my birthday, calling to me!
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