I'm not sure why it's taken me so long to buy a Penguin mug.
It might be something to do with the fact it will have to survive the rigours of a dishwasher occasionally (very occasionally) manned by twenty- something sons who kick tray and door shut together in one manoeuvre and rattle everything within to kingdom come.My Emma Bridgewater mugs died years ago.
That aside today I succumbed because I felt I might be starting to earn this.I'm sort of almost nearly actually starting to feel more enamoured with the old Bloomsbury-ite the more I read.
Jacob's Room has delivered the most unsettling start to a year's reading that I can remember.Everything else I pick up just won't do, all those fragmented images, fleeting characters and innovation and newness in the context of 1922 is still buzzing round in my head.
Am I sickening for Woolfingitis?