What I do know, however, is that it’s been sitting patiently, and waiting to be read for a while now. I remember the books I’ve been gifted for Christmas and birthdays and the countries in which I’ve been when I’ve bought them from The Monk Who Sold His Ferarri, which I bought in the bright lights of Denpesar airport when en route to Singapore, to the copy of The Corrections I purchased when perusing the shelves of downtown LA’s The Last Bookstore.īut try as I might – and try I have done – I cannot remember for the life of me at what point Helen Macdonald’s H is for Hawk made its way onto my bookshelves. I remember buying Killing Me Softly by Nicci French at a bric-a-brac store in Brighton’s South Laines many, many moons ago I remember happening upon a copy of A Prayer for Owen Meany in a charity shop in Horsham and falling in love with it from the very first page. Usually, I have a fairly good memory when it comes to where and when it was that I bought a particular book.
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