I read the diary.
And now we shall never speak of it again.
Here. Have a look at some more books.
The collection of Russian literature (and the occasional other Penguin black spine I now notice) from my first unfinished degree twenty years ago. This collection contains some of the world’s most tedious reading (Oblomov) and some of the world’s most fabulous (Crime and Punishment). See how the babushka stands guard? I am so witty, yes?
The orange shelf. Calm, orderly. Orange. Good, interesting literature; a few classics thrown in.
Starting to look a little overcrowded. Books piled horizontally, hoping a space will miraculously appear.
Totally out of control. There is just no more room for the books I manage to bring home from the op shops every couple of weeks.
I keep telling myself that once we have a shed, all the stuff in the storage room can go in that, then all my craft supplies can come off the bookshelves in my study and go into the storage room, and the overflow from these bookshelves in the dining room can go in my study.
Like that’s going to happen soon.
*Actually the washing machine broke the day before yesterday and the repair man can’t come until some time next week. At great expense, of course.
Which I guess is my karma.