A wet Sunday afternoon. I've finished my latest novel - the one I'm reading. I've NOTHING to read. I slouch through the rooms of our house which are crammed with books. NOTHING. I look on my bookshelf which is dedicated to unread books. NOTHING. By nothing, I mean nothing I feel like reading. Oh dear. I have a biography of Catherine of Aragon. I have a novel set in Australia and one in Turkey, and one translated from the French. I don't want any of these. I want a new Jane Austen. I want a different Dickens. I want a new Barchester Chronicle. I want Barbara Trapido or Jane Gardam. In short, I want comfort reading. I want to be pulled into familiar territory, witty, safe, full of character and plot. I don't want to make an effort or be confronted with past tense or flashback or violence.