Found myself in Darlo today, buying lacquer to touch up a small hole in Maisie's back bumper. As is the way of things, I wound up in Ottakars. Three purchases made:

1. Stories from the Thousand And One Nights. Thought I'd absorb a bit more Islamic culture. It's in Penguin Classics. What the fuck have they done to their covers? The old black and cream was so, well, *classic*. The new one - I'm sure you know what I mean - is just shit. Though at least it's one step up from the PC's that have stills from TV tie-ins on the cover. I wouldn't be seen dead with one of those.

2. Anna Karenina. This winter's Big Thick Novel. Dave's forever banging on about it, so I thought I'd give it a go. I'm warning, you, though: I can't go for long without a few good gags. And I suspect it may be a bit short on jollies.

3. Going Postal. The new Terry Pratchett novel. With the possible (possible) exception of Graham Greene, Pratchett's the only really great English novelist since Dickens, and along with Dickens, Eliot, Greene and Austen one of the only five English novelists that everyone should read. Hardy? Miserable fucker. Woolf? Stream-of-consciousness - pretentious bollocks. All other postwar English "literary" writers? Self-obsessed, navel-gazing, onanistic, self-referential, self-important, irritating, flabby-minded, relativistic, snobbish, elitist tossers. All of them. Pratchett, like Dickens, reminds us why it's important to remember that we're human, and - like Dickens - does it with humour, pathos, energy, and by creating characters that stay with you long after you've reached the last page. Brilliant.