I'm reading a popular novel, one of the Boleyn series by Philippa Gregory, a bit of history and a lot of conjecture spiked with jousts and feasts and heaving bosoms. At least I'm trying to read it. Every time I pick it up, there's Evinrude, the Crabby One, yowling.
You'd think the book was dipped in
crack catnip. He sits in my lap as I turn the pages and breathes deep, eyes glazed over, the shredded corner of a business card from Promises Malibu caught in his teeth.