It isn't happening today though, because I only have an hour before gulag time (gulag pancake day too, which will be tricky since they charge you about €5 for a sphere of dough, I have no money and Oscar ate my cash card) and it would require me to face all sorts of insuperable obstacles like, going up two flights of stairs when my legs have wasted away to Ian McShane matchstick dimensions (large man! tiny legs!) from inactivity, and trying to locate books that are probably in the cellar or still in York anyway. Also, the CFO happened on a noise that makes Oscar behave like a rabid monkey and it is very amusing (it's a sort of ghostly whooooooing noise), so I have spent much of the day doing that and falling about laughing.
Instead, and sort of continuing on the theme of confessions, I am going to go the absolute other extreme and telling you all the books I haven't read and films I haven't seen. It will be like the bit in a David Lodge book where all the dons play this game, Humiliation, and one of them admits he hasn't read Hamlet and is instantly doomed, whilst also winning masterfully. It's also a bit like the meme Persephone sent me way back - a hundred books you had to say if you had read or not - that I got halfway through doing and gave up .
So. A sort of cultural confession if you will. The films bit is quite jaw dropping so expect to be shocked. I have nothing to say in my defence. Your job is either to advise me whether to read or see the things on the list of shame, or alternatively, to give me your own list of shame.
Here goes. I can't decide if this will be good or searingly embarassing. Probaby searingly embarassing. Tomorrow, I show you my verucca! (No. I do not have a verucca. Though my son does and he's had it for months, because I am a very bad, neglectful parent).
War and Peace. I own it. I love Anna Karenina. I really should like it, but oh sweet baby jesus, too many battle scenes.
Ulysses - ha. I am not alone and I know it. Also, I claim to have read Dubliners, but I am not even sure if this is true, or if I only read five pages. I suspect the latter. I sure as hell haven't read Finnegan's Wake.
Any John Updike.
Or Philip Roth.
Or John Irving.
Or John Steinbeck.
Basically, if you are an incredibly revered male American author, it is likely I have not read you. Especially if your name is 'John'. No, don't cry.
Lord of the Rings - fantasy - bleugh
Nineteen Eighty Four - futuristic, nope.
Crime and Punishment - title distinctly lacking in fun and escapism, sorry Fyodor, and also, sorry Gwynnie.
One hundred years of solitude - magical realism also out.
Love in the time of cholera - ditto
Heart of Darkness - this is Stowmarket's fault.
Don de Lillo's Underworld - gaaaah. So many pages. So little appeal.
Belle de Seigneur
[Also, I pretend to know all about collaborationist literature in France, but have not in fact read Céline's Voyage au bout de la Nuit, aaargh. Ouch. That one hurt.]
I have not seen:
Lord of the Rings
It's a wonderful life
Some like it hot (I know I would love this. But I haven't seen)
Eeeee. I'm cringing at what I've just admitted. Go on, put me out of my misery or prolong it by mocking me.