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Henry and Clare Underground

I was standing near the doorway of a Central Line carriage yesterday afternoon and a young woman got on, holding a copy of The Time Traveler's Wife.

I gasped. I didn't mean to, it just happened. I'm becoming one of those people whose brain acts faster than its internal censor. I guess I've also become one of those people who talks to strangers on the tube. Oh dear ... I'm becoming my mother.

She looked at me and I said, "that's one of my favorite books."

"It's so good," she smiled, but was only about 30 pages into it.

"You have no idea."