If you follow me on Twitter, then you might already know about the recent disaster to land on my steps. If you don't, then you're in for a treat.
Recently I became obsessed with A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin, much like many other people did ten years ago (or in the last few years, as is the case with Carraka, who graced these pages earlier today in my bizarre rant about characters from the book). I managed to get my mother into the series long before I could stomach it (I'll explain this some other time), and when I got myself hooked on the first book, I started looking for the next three in the series. This search led me to call my mother, who has a great bookshop near her, and the end result was that my mother would gift me the next three (my own copies, rather than hers) and a whole bunch of homemade foods (jam, apple butter, applesauce, apple pie filling, and so forth). I like to pretend this was a loving gesture.
As such, I've been anticipating the day that the box would arrive, because I desperately want to read Martin's work in hard copy. I love my Nook, but nothing beats a mass marking paperback in my hands when I'm walking. MMPs feel...right.
A week-ish went by, and finally the box arrived (today), marked a number of times with the term "fragile" (fra-gee-lay as they say in A Christmas Story). Instead of a well-kept package, I found this (after the fold):
