I finished with Julian Barnes last month.
I don't quite know what to do with myself.
It wasn't unexpected, of course; as soon as he came into my life again I knew the end would come. He turns up when he feels like it and knows I'll be waiting, pre-ordered and sweaty-palmed with panting, unseemly anticipation. I took him to bed with me every night for three weeks, sighing and swooning and eking out the pleasure, each skin- tingling adverb by each goosepimply shuddering noun.
But then it was over. And now I can't seem to bear to look at anything new, never mind pick it up.
I know the short term cure for heartbreak is to go to bed with something cheap, forgettable and preferably already well-thumbed. A frivolous distraction for an hour or two to take your mind off things, a cleansing lemon-scented moist towelette for the literary palate. But it was no use. Even though I put on fresh sheets and slipped into my best perfumed nothing, I still found taking Terry Pratchett into my plumped up eiderdown nothing but a sordid and impoverished experience. I couldn't stop finding fault. His dialogue was predictable and his attempts at humour a turn off; after only twenty minutes I could no longer stand the feel of him under my fingers. I kicked him out before midnight.
So in desperation I did something I'm not proud of. I am ashamed to admit it but I must; I threw myself into a rebound.
Everyone had told me that Murakami and I would be perfect together. People I respect, too, those who laugh uncontrollably at the self-help section in Waterstones and have to wash their hands after accidentally touching a Bill Bryson. So I bade myself make his acquaintance and after a short while, decided to continue our relationship back at mine. I even took some time off work with the intention of getting to know him better.
Oh reader, I tried to love him, I really did. His humour was subtle and well timed, he didn't say anything to make me want to break his spine in annoyance and with an expert hand touched me appropriately in all the right places. Everything should have been wonderful. I should have been traipsing lightly over Hampstead Heath in unsuitably flimsy dresses with the intention of devouring him under a tree somewhere. But I simply couldn't give him the devotion he deserved. When I caught myself ignoring him in favour of the Guardian property section I knew my heart was still elsewhere. I put him sadly, guiltily back on the shelf, half read.
I am lost. The only thing for it is a period of chastity, I fear. No textual contact for at least another month, maybe more. Or until the blurb for banana guards in the Lakeland catalogue starts to sound fruity, whichever comes first.