The Noodle has been busy.
Today he read The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. He has not been communicative about it. He agreed it was sad. I almost wish he hadn't picked it up, because he might probably enjoy it more in a year or two, and now he'll miss out on the pleasure of it being the right book at the right time. But then there is a pleasure to be had in figuring something out later as well, I suppose.
I am now reading him Prince Caspian since he read The Horse and His Boy over Easter. I always liked reading Caspian as a wee kidlet, but I'm finding it quite dull to read aloud. I hope it picks up once we get away from Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. What are they even doing in the story? Caspian is a much more interesting character. At least until he becomes weirdly priggish after his death. I guess a life of anxiety and then finding yourself resurrected from the inside of a river will do that to a person. I don't quite have the life experience to judge, but I'll be sure to advise you all if ever I do.
But mostly what the Noodle has been reading is all the Glory Gardens books, over and over and over again. If I have to hear about Obert's crazy capers one more time I may run away to a non-cricketing country never to return. These books are to cricket as, well, as cricket is to cricket. Cricket, cricket, cricket, cricket, cricket.
I, on the other hand, am slowly relishing A.S. Byatt at home, and rapidly distracting myself from the ACTION bus network with P.D. James while commuting. No cricket. Not one bit.