Do The English Write Westerns?

A guy on the bus -- Rich, a knowledgeable Cub fan -- is offering lots of vegetables from his garden. I look forward to eating them.

It's a thing, having a friend on the bus. A Bus Friend. I read until we approach the corner where he boards, and then I look anxiously to see if he's there. he isn't always. Sometimes I've been glad if he's not, depending on what I'm reading. Mostly, though, I've noticed I hope he's waiting, look forward to having a conversation, to communing with new humans. We talk about things besides the Cubs -- vegetables, obviously, among other things. He asked my name the other day, which surprised me, because it's usually me that forgets a name.

I have such a large backlog of books now that I haven't done a serious Goodwill excursion in a while. I go merely to glance. (The entire "Left Behind" sputem is there at the moment, however many volumes of it there are). I've started on Gore Vidal, having finished another Agatha, which followed The Invisible Man, and there was a Sherlock Holmes recently, and PD James awaits, and I've become aware I spend a lot of time in early 20th Centiury (or older) England. Which is a little tiresome after a while. So Vidal (Empire), and trhen maybe Hemingway or, if I need a break, maybe Tom Robbins or Vonnegut or Elmore James or some other good ol' Yank. Steinbeck. Hemingway.

I have a large backlog.