Are you sick of me talking about how much I love Alexander McCall Smith? Do you find yourself wanting to say, "If you love him so much, Doppelganger, why don't you MARRY him?"
44 Scotland Street
by Alexander McCall Smith (#5)
I feel like, after my last post, I should ease into the weekend on a somewhat more upbeat note. And after reading notanillusion's touching concern for my mental wellbeing, what with the distressing literary and cinematic fare I've been taking in, I feel a need to reassure you all that I knew exactly what I needed after finishing The Year of Magical Thinking. I needed a book that is funny without being acidic or jarring. I needed a book that is warm and gentle and life-affirming. I needed a book that could wrap me up in a big fuzzy hug and hold me and pat my hair and whisper, "There, there. There, there." And once again, McCall Smith comes to the rescue.
I can't even tell you what the plot was. Vaguely Douglas Adams-ish (think Dirk Gently, not Hitchhiker's Guide), minus the loopiness. Something about a painting? And a secret underground tunnel? I'm pretty sure there's a dog in there somewhere, extremely charismatic, as dogs in novels tend to be.
But the thing is, it doesn't matter what the story was. If you're in a fragile state, or even if you're not, read it. Like me, you may not remember it when you're done, but that's all to the good. You can re-read it later.
TGIF! Group hug?