I take the book from by bag. Page one and the principle character is moaning – he smells pipe tobacco which he smokes but doesn’t like. A scholar with calloused hands he smothers like joy rotting gin. I struggle through a mulch of pedestrian language and cliché toadstools – by the end of page two I’m drowning in adjectives and squirting modifiers. The book goes back in my bag and I watch first autumn creep past the windows of the bus. The green and blue form a perfect casing for Friday. When I get home the charity shop will be one book richer.
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