Today is Bloomsday, the anniversary of that fine summer’s day in 1904, when an offal-loving, peregrinating Irish Jew turned Protestant Christian of Hungarian descent went for a stroll in Dublin, while his missus entertained herself at home in bed.
That’s my synopsis of James Joyce’s Ulysses, for what it’s worth. Good book, so it is. Read it if you haven’t already, and read it again if you have. Then put your feet up with Finnegans Wake. Life’s too short to be wasting with the likes of JK Rowling. Or the Interwebs.