Bedtime reading

I'd like to make a photograph of Julie and I reading in bed. The old bloke with the beard reading 'Why Marx Was Right', the youthful Julie reading Dave Lee Roth's 'Crazy from the Heat' (see previous posts). It would be a picture of middle age, (sort of Terry and June) but not entirely accurate, for I'd actually be chewing over a gumshoe classic like Poodle Springs- an excellent bedtime choice with a good if stereotypical plot with the added enjoyment of trying to distinguish the bits actually originally written by Raymond Chander and the bits finished off by Robert B Parker. That image might be even more like Terry and June.

I save Terry Eagleton's 'Why Marx was Right' for the daytime. It's a book he finds so easy to write it's almost an embarrassment, and by now he must be knocking eighty, and as I glance down at the bag still full of essays I have to read next, I wish some of the students had the gumption to read such stuff and consider such straightforward materialist concerns rather than produce such idiotically pretentious self indulgent drivel.

It's enough to make you feel your knocking eighty yourself, and believe me I feel it even at fifty, such have been the consequences of my almost life long enthusiasms, which I now have to reconcile myself with and bat away mention of gyms, press ups, healthfoods and general moodiness at me tending towards lunch at 4pm.