Time for books

It's frozen hard, up here on the porridge hill. The pesky puddles are solid. We need to warm our coats up before sticking our noses outside. Norwestie was offered a walk and shrank back indoors, and I hadn't the heart to press it. We are sated, bloated and the drawbridge is up.

I just finished this one at the fireside. There's something comforting in 1930-1950s village murders where the inspector always smokes a pipe, rules of evidence get bent all over the place, and the world is very much simpler.

The point of this blip though is the Penguin Green. Once a fashionable colour for decorators and bus builders, you never see it now. But when I see its warmth on books in an antique shop I'm drawn like moth to flame.