I finished Disgrace in three days – in fact, when I was halfway through, I didn’t put it down until I had finished it. Good book. And I can see why it has been praised so much. I suppose people in the Nobel Prize committee are more likely to like a book about the relationship between father and daughter to the background of a fast-evolving country than, say, one about a bloke in his thirties who spends his time putting his record collection in autobiographical order. At the same time, I’m not really sure which one I would prefer in the end; at least I do not feel like running to the library and read the rest of his oeuvre. But why does the record-collector in me feels the irresistible need to have a bloody opinion about the book?

(Speaking of records, I’ve really started to miss them. And the fact that the amplifier and cd-player, both of which arrived this week, had barely survived the journey to England, makes me doubt whether it is such a good idea to send them, especially the vinyl, to England by post…)