Books and Prejudice

(AKA Book of the Fortnight, No. 4)

To understand the following, you must realise that, in my lifetime, I have met three people I really, very strongly, dislike. This isn't just dislike, this is just-being-in-the-same-room-as-them-makes-me-shake-with-anger. These are the people I have nightmares about.

(Incidentally, if you're reading this, fear not, you're not one of them).

The book I read last week is the favourite book of one of those people. It's quite a well-known book, and the kind of thing I would almost certainly have read before without this connection. You see, book preferences are such a personal thing, I was certain I wouldn't like it. Then, just last week, I came across this book (OK, OK, I'll get on and break the suspense, but in a minute, d'accord?) in the library, and I thought I'd give it a go. Well, I'm unemployed, and finding something worth reading amongst the Mills and Boon style dross that constitutes 90% of our local library's stock is always hard work.

You know what?

No, I can't say as I've ever met him.

Sorry.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Well. I LOVED the book. It's been a long time since I've been able to get into something like that. Two days was all it took me, and it's not particularly short.

I might even tell you what the book's called, now.

It's The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood.

Moral of the story: I should lose some of my prejudices- who knows what else they've made me miss?