My beloved was clearing out our garage. It’s spring. And the garage is a mess.
Amidst the broken furniture, the lengths of wood kept for a just in case DIY job that never seemed to happen, the 1970s’ tennis racquets now almost too heavy to even lift, and the copious bags of unwanted items we’d decluttered long ago from the house but never thrown away, we found a talking point …
A metal bookmark – 50 books to read before you die.
This shiny thing suddenly seemed more appealing than the rubbish and the dust and the back-breaking lifting and putting into piles, so we spent a few minutes counting up how many we’d each read. Not a competition, you understand – just curious.
My total? 24. There were a couple on the list I had never heard of (note made to self to investigate), and if honest, more than a couple I’d read decades ago and would have trouble recounting their tale in any great detail. But 24 it was. And a few I really wish I had read, and now intend to, sooner than later.
But this reading list comes with a price. When I’ve read all 50, what happens then?