Arse-achingly grumpy

 I’m reading too many miserable books. I’ve come to realise that absolutely nobody is happy. I mean, how very dare people write about happiness, that’s so last century.

If you need an uplifting story then beware. Anything labelled as such will have someone dying of cancer who unbelievably has the energy to skydive in the day before their death. 

Want to read about a wedding then the husband to be will be having a secret affair. Babies. Babies are safe. Everyone loves a baby. Nope. Absolutely not. They cry and puke and wail. Mothers have PND, fathers are t carrying their share of the mental load and everyone is unhappy.

Bookshops are currently full of dystopia. What’s the worst thing you can imagine? Don’t worry there’s worse in your bookshop. Even books that are supposed to be funny with a sweary grandmother and a child excluded from school are thinly veiled references to child neglect and then, of course, the grandmother dies. 

Murder is the only genre that’s cosy at the moment. Unless you are reading murder by younger writers and then it’s filled with shame, bad dates and rape. 

All this reading is making me grumpy. So much so that I’ve developed a pain in my left hip that extends to my bum. 

I am, literally, arse-achingly grumpy and it’s the fault of literature.