At the airport in Hungary, I picked up a book (persuaded by beloved to treat myself) called the Paris wife, by Paula McLain.
I read the blurb and was excited to get stuck in.
A book about Ernest Hemingway, Paris, and early 20th century left bank culture.
The plane journey and wait beforehand enable me to read 149 pages. Yet, it felt like wading through treacle. I did not, enjoy this book. It seemed to take forever to start and stopped so abruptly, with a quick epilogue to make things finish nicely. I kept having to force myself to sit and read it so it would be done.
Still, it adds to the total nicely.