the shells she sells are sea-shells, I’m sure.

One of my favourite writers is due to host a workshop in my local library this week.

I thought I would like to go.

But then I had a horrible thought.

What if I thought he was a prat?

What if I found his voice grating?

What if I just didn’t like the way he walked?

That would spoil his fiction and poetry forever.

I’d never be able to read another line of his without being reminded.

It’s so silly, I know.

What  a wasted opportunity, the reasonable me tells myself.

But still. I can’t help it. Books shouldn’t be confused with personalities.