My task for this evening is checking (not reading) my typeset pages, comparing the top and bottom lines of each paragraph to ensure that none of the paragraphs fell into the ether during typesetting (rare, but it does happen) and looking for formatting infelicities. I am not reading the pages (I’ve asked someone else to do this for me) so that I resist the temptation to fiddle with the text, which at this stage would be annoying and expensive. So: checking paragraphs it is.
This is time-consuming and, let us say, “non-optimally engaging,” so I’m listening to Frank Turner’s album England, Keep My Bones while I’m doing it. I really enjoy this album, and it’s one of the reasons that I have a book in the first place, because it sort of (as the reviewer from the BBC put it) “comfortably wrestle[s] with such notions as what it is to be English – English, mind, not British – without being caught on the defensive,” which made me start wrestling (mentally) with the whole notion of the quaint English village and how it appears in books and on the telly and… you get the idea.
Anyway, here’s Frank singing about English rivers (in a boat, on an English river).
Aaaaaaaaand back to checking paragraphs.