So, dearest reader, you may have been aware if a drift in quality in my blogging in recent days. I'm sorry. Partly this has been due to the exhaustion you feel at the end of another day's cycling. Partly because cycling douses your eyes with little joys that don't warrant an entry. Partly, I have been diverted by my fellow travellers.

But the main culprit has been a newly refound dirty secret passion. The love of a woman. I've been reading Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

Addicted is not strong enough a word. I am even braving the challenges of reading in the back of this bus back from Ha Long Bay, whose splendid array of potholes, ruts and subsidence leave anyone with back pain in a cold sweat. Reading the printed word is nearly impossible.

Usually when I read a book, as I near the end I'll note the total umber of pages and grind towards finishing the blessed thing, like a cadet trying to get a shine on the instep of his boot. Completion for completion's sake. Just get it finished. Even with books I love, this habit creeps in.

Not so with Miss Eyre. I don't want it to end. I only comfort myself that the kindling desire for literature will lead me to other gems.

Thank you Currel.