I left work to sit in my car with AC on full blast and read my book. The office is a fire-pit from hell because nobody can manage to remember how disgustingly hot it can get in October, so there’s no AC.
I’m so into the book I’m reading, it took a lot of willpower not to flake out on my meetings to read it. It’s 681 pages, so basically paradise. Also – stay out of my way, literary snobs – it’s by Jonathan Franzen, and I don’t care what anybody thinks. It’s massively enjoyable. More Anglo authors should write like Franzen. Simple, unadorned, direct writing with no annoying postmodern flourishes.