Head stuck in a book.

It must be the darkening days and the onset of chilliness. All I wanted to do for the last week was read. Curl up in a blanket and read. A couple of Agatha's then I was saved by the arrival of Iain Rankin and Stieg Larsson. After that a prize from the Red Cross shop next door.

Maybe it was coming to oor loon after Agatha that made him seem so bland and lacking in frisson. Not a decent corps, library, lead pipe or mickey finn to goad me on to the need for discovery and retribution. No catharsis. I was full of good will and expectation when I started out, relaxed with enjoyment into his excellent style, but half way through became irritated. I need to relate to one or two characters in a book and although I think his new hero is interesting, there wasn't anyone else I could get excited about, not even his alcoholic sister. I suppose if your chief protagonist is on the wagon there has to be a drunk somewhere fighting with the demon. After all this is Scotland.

It had tension and the general atmosphere of deep distrust but - not enough horror for this girl maybe? I have never done well with spy novels, nor in general with anything that involves using my brain rather than my instnct, especially if it demands I pay full attention to the wink-and-nod nuances of in-house conversations, know somethng about the dirty machinations of business and politics, and so on. Maybe he's just too clever for me. Maybe I'm just not that interested. I haven't seen any crits yet (except Chillsiders 'flat' which I endorse.)

I was relieved to have done my duty by th national treasure and be able to move on to the The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest which had all I needed. It was a totally satisfctory denouement in my opinion. Plenty of characters for me to get interested in and therefore follow through the winding paths of politics and dirty government. Which sort of gives weight to my complaint about Complaints People like me (there must be a few million out there?) like to get to know the cast, find empathy, have more than a name, clothing and a job title to identify them each time they appear on stage.

Now I'm reading 'The Cutting Room' by Louise Welsh and finding it gripping though nasty in a way that would probably put Miss Marple off.