I just finished the book for our book club tonight (enter sheepish smile here). I thought I was going to totally struggle through it, abhor it, wish I’d never agreed to read it. As a rule I’m not a fan of books that you can read on a beach and not think about at all, like fashion-y chick lit or mainstream mystery.
Although can you really call Agatha Christie mainstream mystery? So Elizabeth is into mysteries, and since it was her turn to choose the last book, she chose Murder on the Orient Express. Inwardly I rolled my eyes. As a rule, you see, I don’t like mysteries. I think I’ve expressed this before (why yes, just one paragraph previous!) I labored through a couple “Cat Who” books in elementary school because my best friend (funnily enough) Kat liked them so much. (And for some other reason I’m not a huge cat person. Maybe these two stem from the same awful books I was forced to read…)
Anyhoo, I was not excited to get started on this Poirot mystery. In fact, I was not excited the whole first half of the book. Then Brian, another book group member, pressured me into finishing the rest of it. All this morning. And amazingly enough, I liked it.
I actually liked it. How shocking! I might just be inclined to check out another of her books at the library.
But I am not bending on the “Cat Who” books. Nope. Not gonna touch ’em. At least that I’m certain of.