A week has passed...

since my eyes devoured the last line

of 'Bring Up the Bodies'.

I feel bereft,

no other prose comes close.

I've tried, oh how I've tried to read another:

nothing, but nothing works its magic.

For the very first time in my life I am about to go on a journey

never undertaken before...

I've started to reread, yes me... rereading a book, 
you may not be surprised to know its
'Wolf Hall'.

Hilary Mantel's words envelope me like a warm woollen cloak,

I get comfort from every well crafted sentence.

This is me speaking: me of the whizzing through the tedious bits,

the descriptive passages: me of chucking a boring book 

out of the window of a moving train (fib).

Hilary's words I hoover up: I'm an upmarket vacuum, you know the sort,

the ones that all living bugs, dead skin, mites, spores, allergens (I could go on!) fear.

Who is this strange apparition?

Now I do know I have always been

envious of intelligent life, a strange phenomenon not known to me.

However as I've said way back in a past post that...

I'm too light for heavy books and too heavy for light books.

Suddenly my brain has morphed into an useful piece of kit.

When did it happen?  What strange powers were at work in me

as I stood in the church and the book called me.

Not God... Hilary Mantel.

Before you know it I'll be sporting a house-shaped

head-dress.