Tomorrow is the first day of my holiday, and so I booked myself to fill in for C for a day, because heaven forfend that I should take a day off. I have trouble slowing down, like a downhill skier who needs some runway (is that the right word?) at the end of the race to lose the momentum that threatens to make them crash into the boundary fencing. I will ignore the nagging inner voice that asks me if I want to work five in a row because, why not be productive? I have plans, other plans. I have a book I want to read and I have time to read something that isn’t a psychology textbook or a peer reviewed journal article written within the last seven years (because everything written prior to that is trash). I want to read a quirky little book about time travel written by a Japanese writer. He’s not Haruki Murakami, but really, who else can even come close? We shall see. There has been a lot of buzz about this book, and if you travel in the nerdy sort of circles that I do, you’ve probably already read it and moved on to the sequel. Please don’t tell me it doesn’t live up to the hype; I don’t care. I’m reading it anyway.
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