I visited my local library today, which was neither an unpleasant nor an unusual activity for me. It's heartening to see the borrowing folk of Hitchin strenuously supporting this facility during a period when the knives of philistinism (I'm sorry, I mean a series of prudent and necessary public spending cuts) are dripping with the blood of similar institutions.
The chief joy of these visits for me (apart from the visceral thrill I receive on being able to pass through the doors carrying new stuff for which I haven't had to pay, a sensation which is surprisingly immune to erosion over time) is in sifting through the shelves looking for authors of whom I haven't heard, in a kind of literary beach-combing exercise. One such writer, whose books - while they will never be sworn into The Canon of Great Literature - are not only great fun but have irresistibly eccentric titles, is Christopher Moore, whose The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove and Island of the Sequined Love Nun have proved for me effective provokers of chortling and chuckling and the occasional outright shriek of laughter. The books skilfully blend fantasy, broad, (often sexual but never unseemly) comedy and adventure to produce engaging narratives populated with charismatic protagonists.
If you're not a member already, may I urge you to join your local branch of this wonderful phenomenon. They may even have some Christopher Moore.