It’s been a scrambling sort of day, as it always is when one is preparing to leave town for a few days. In the midst of making sure the mail was stopped and the neighbors notified, in finishing up all the loose ends at the office, doing the last bits of laundry and sweeping up the floors, I remembered with a jolt that both my husband and I were nearly at the end of our books.
I hate finishing a book on the airplane…it’s a horrible place to start a new book, for one can’t properly relax and concentrate amidst that incessant roaring of engines and popping of soda cans and – the worst of all for me – the screaking sound of arm-rests going up and down. (Whyever must people continue playing with the arm-rests on their seats? And whyever are they so screaky?)
At any rate, I stopped off at the library to see if, by some remote chance, the new Peter Robinson book was available. My husband and I both adore Robinson, and his brooding Inspector Banks. Since we’re familiar with Robinson’s style and his characters, it would be easy to delve in and feel right at home straightaway.
I had decided to be magnanimous and allow Jim to read it first, if I were lucky enough to find it…THERE! I spotted it right away with it’s bright red and black cover.
But wait – why is it in trade paperback size when it was only just published? Robinson’s books always come out in hardback first.
I grabbed it off the shelf, nearly knocking aside the elderly lady who was perusing the New Releases section with me.
“So sorry,” I apologized. She glared at me with that “oh, you young people are so rude” expression.
Never mind. I turned to my book, eagerly opening it to the first page.
Large print edition.
That’s why it was a trade paperback format.
I put it back as quickly as if it were poison.
I don’t quite understand why, but I can’t read large print editions. God knows, I need them. I have a pair of reading glasses in every room, purse, tote bag, and car. I just reached over and put on the pair I keep here by my chair. But there’s something about that huge type, with all that space between the letters – ooh, it just makes me shudder.
So I came home with a couple of David Baldacci paperbacks for Jim and an Iris Murdoch novel for myself (salud to TJ).
A few minutes ago, my husband arrived home from work.
“Look what I got!” he called, proudly holding aloft the Robinson novel I’d put back on the shelf just an hour ago.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, aghast.
“The library,” he said. “And it’s large print! It’s so easy to read!”
“Well…yes…I guess so…” I spluttered.
And now a new dilemma – will my desire to read the book overcome my anathema to the large print?