cyphomandra

I spent the weekend in a Victorian guesthouse, which meant Saturday night consisted of sitting in the parlour in a comfortable wingback chair (strangely, no antimacassar) with an RP-voiced announcer and classical music on the elderly radio. So naturally I read half a biography of Arthur Conan Doyle (I'm not counting this, as I didn't finish it - I was mainly interested in his childhood and how much of the Murder Rooms series was invented. The two-faced fellow GP he initially practised with is there, and the alcoholic/mad father, but his mother seems to have played a more important part than the books allow for, and the bio skipped so quickly through the medical school years ("met Joseph Bell. Headed off on Arctic freighter to raise money. Graduated") that I couldn't confirm the fellow classmate serial killer thing) and then an Agatha Christie, later in period but still appropriate in feel. 4.50 from Paddington - one of the ones I'm sure I've read, but it's been so long that I don't remember the details.

( Actually, maybe I didn't read this one. )

I also read the painfully bad Beaches, by Iris Rainer Dart. A re-read; I read it after seeing the movie, because I was curious about how the balance of power/viewer interest played out in it, and I'd retained no memory of it, probably because it is very bad. One of those books where you can see the shadow of a much better book, with real people, trapped somewhere behind the page.