Life She sat next to me on the bus.
“Excuse me …" I said. "Sorry … excuse me. Can I ask you a weird question.”
She glances at me.
“Yes?”
“Do you know anyone who likes Terry Pratchett?”
“Who?”
“Terry Pratchett. He’s an author.”
“I’m not English … so …”
“It’s just I’ve got a book I want to give away…”
“Right.”
“I mean you can have it anyway if you like.”
“Are you a BookCrosser?”
I grinned (what are the chances).
"You know what that is?"
"But I don't have a book to give to you."
"Doesn't matter."
I handed her the book. She’d heard of the co-author Stephen Briggs.
She’d first heard of BookCrossing six months ago but what with the recent publicity … and we talked all the way home about books and what they can mean. She reminded me a bit of Muriel Hemmingway in Manhatten. I talked about my problem with this book and she explained that she read Chaucer between novels to come down from the experience (which is fabulous by the way, I should try that). It’s weird how talking to someone about the things you like can broaden the soul. And how sometimes doing something impulsively doesn't make you seem very strange (although it might).

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