Short version: I feel dirty inside for even having glanced at this book. Or you can read the longer version below...
Ooh, it's been a good week so far! On Tuesday, I read a wonderful kiss-and-tell exposé in The Star
about Katie Price's steamy love triangle. The picture of her boyfriend Alex Reid dressed in women's underwear was particularly good. Then, on Wednesday, I watched the TV mini-series on the Queen, and was able to gloat over her pain as the tabloid press served up all the juicy details about Charles, Diana and Camilla.
And earlier today, while visiting Heffers, I picked up a copy of The Original of Laura
. I was just starting to read Vladimir Nabokov's notes for his unfinished novel, which he'd expressly said should be destroyed and never shown to the world... what a treat! He had this stupid habit of burning all his drafts, like John Shade in Pale Fire
- evidently, death had caught him by surprise, and he hadn't managed to get rid of this lot.
Then... damn! I'd only got a few pages into it when a friend SMSed me with a rumor about a secret webcam that had somehow been introduced into Jodie Foster's bathroom. He said it was incredible what you could see, but it was only a matter of time before she found out about it, so I'd better hustle. I rushed home and made the most of my opportunity.
I'm sure I'll get to the Nabokov tomorrow. Un embarras de riches
, as the Master might have put it.