Just back from Corralejo - it was a superb week, but since it was, I have little to say about it beyond 'I read'. I read Stuart McBride, The Fleshhouse on the outward flight; read half a dozen books while there, stretched out on a sunbed; and read most of John Irving, The Cider House Rules on the flight home. Sometimes, but not always, I stopped reading in the early evening, when the sun went down, and walked with Himself to the town to find somewhere to eat. Excellent food, as always: paella one night, shared with Himself; tapas at the Casa Manolo (the best restaurant, I think) (Himself ordered his usual of chickpeas and tripe; since I don't do tripe, I had croquettes, and we also ate a plate of mussels); a steak house another night where we were cared for by a maitre d' with the hair and moustache of a cavalier, and where, perversely, I chose pasta, and drank rather a lot of rioja. Sometimes we browsed supermarket shelves for steak and salad, and stocked up on almond biscuits for breakfast. Mostly, though, I read. We both did. And we talked about what we'd been reading. And as I read, I listened to Cosi Fan Tutte over and over and over again.

One book stood out - so much so, that I wrote a couple of postcards recommending it to friends: Pascal Mercier, A Night Train to Lisbon. I find it difficult to describe the book as it is so peculiar, and so peculiarly rivetting. An intellectual journey for the protagonist, and so also for the reader. It has left me filled with deep envy for people who are engaged in literary research, and I'm yearning for time to return to research into literature and language. Work is holding less and less appeal as my new boss's sticky, depressive timidity becomes more and more entrenched. (I went to an interview for a similar post recently - and the enthusiasm of the managers was palpable: I felt as though I was gulping great lungfuls of fresh air.) I have little time for anything bar work, and resent this constantly and enormously (particularly as the new boss is exasperating everyone because extraordinarily lazy as well as rather dim).

I have joined Twitter! I'm not sure I quite understand the attraction, but perhaps that's because I have yet to find folk worth following. I'm not sure I'll be able to trill, tweet and chirrup, as I doubt I'd remember to write anything when (or, perhaps, if I'm ever) doing something noteworthy. I am being followed, however, albeit only people who want me to buy something. I am curious about it though. What is it that makes receiving tweets from celebrities so alluring? Is it something to do with the illusion that it is personal communication? Is it because you appear to able to eavesdrop on the great and good. (And what is it that makes it so alluring for celebrities?)

I'm away to try to finish John Irving tonight. There's something so very satisfying about reading a longish book particularly when largely restricted by time to reading only a page or two before sleep.