In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t generally report picture books, because that would get out of control, but wanted to keep thinking about this one.
In Which Your Humble Blogger enjoys the book, even though it is pretty ridiculous.
In Which Your Humble Blogger finally blogs a book about Richard III, but not about the punk one.
In Which Your Humble Blogger must have read it in the new year, but I think it was in February sometime, or possibly January; long enough ago that the details have faded in memory.
In Which Your Humble Blogger revisits the past and realizes that you can’t go home again, if you were even there in the first place.
In Which Your Humble Blogger begins the process of catching up, starting from a dozen behind.
In Which Your Humble Blogger does not spoil the book, or any other book for that matter. At least not now.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is only fairly sure that he ever finished the book, come to think of it.
In Which Your Humble Blogger is pleased, and then unpleased, and then perhaps pleased again, and then, well, we’ll see.
In Which Your Humble Blogger gets hold of the Psmith playscript, but still doesn’t know who manages the production rights to Arthur.