There's a feeling when you pick up a book by an author you admire that can only be described as relishing a safe pair of hands. I get that with Iain Banks. I know I'm in for a good read. His style is warm and soothing on my brain.
How bad could this be? At first she'd thought he was exaggerating when he'd fallen like a sack of potatoes and curled up like a hedgehog. Now she thought he probably really was in intense pain.
Scrabbles gave a cough and flexed one hind leg again, backing towards the two of them. Oh God, she might kick him again. Or her. She tutted and rose, chiding the tall chestnut mare and leading her to where she could munch on some carrot leaves, out of harm's way. Then she went back to the boy lying clutched around his pain on the red-brick path. She bit her lip and patted his head softly. He had curly light brown hair.
'That's called a stringhalt,' she said, not knowing what else to say.
Yeah, great. It's a very good book. Not my favourite of his, but still bleeding good.
And, by the way, I have succumbed to Twitter. Find me there as bluepootle. I blame the closure of Whispers of Wickedness (sob). I had to find a new place to be a blue pootle, you see.