Treasure, sunken

Its a very I-will-tell-you-insignificant-details-about-my-mundane-life type blogger sort of thing to do, but yesterday was kind of remarkable, and I'd rather write about it in the hope that any readers who may be lurking out there do not apply the same weird standards which I do while judging blog posts. More to the point, yesterday i found, in an old dusty cupboard, tucked underneath the spare bed in the spare room, books which I had loved, lost and given up hope of ever finding. For starters, on top, covered in dust and cobwebs, was my Gatsby, with its fantastic foreward stretching almost as long as the novel itself. I found my old Gerald Durrells, including the ones in which he is writing about his family, the funniest reads north of Paul Colhelo. There also emerged a Garrison Keillor, showing a touching determination to keep re-entering my life until I finally read it, and an Anne Rice, reminding everyone that you don't need to read like porn to be erotic. And most astonishingly, there was my copy of Rats Saw God, ostensibly teenlit but actually the greatest book ever written since... (Aaargh. Too much hyperbole). A varied treasure, from a treasure chest of variable quality, arriving months before Thanksgiving, and too late in the day for me to go and light a candle in the local synagogue (I'm kidding. Garlands. Temple).