I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not very good at reading non-fiction - there, I’ve said it.  Colin Thubron’s Mirror to Damascus has been sitting beside my bed for a couple of weeks now and I’ve only managed to read ten pages. I know that it is perfectly structured, profoundly beautiful prose and the bits which I have read I am in awe of, but I don’t seem to be able to get any momentum going. This makes me feel a little shamefaced and it is also stopping me from reading anything else, because I feel I should give  my best shot  so, as you can see, there are riffs of guilt and resentment going on here and I really do need to get a grip.

My sister threw me a lifeline yesterday by telling me that it is fifty years since Harper Lee published To Kill a Mockingbird, a book that I have never read. A book of such enormous stature but I really feel I ought to pay it the respect that it deserves and read it urgently, this week,  now. Perhaps this will let me off the hook, Thubron - wise, although I do want to read about Damascus, because I know that it will be good for me and I shall be glad when I have.

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