I was coming through the barriers at Gravesend railway station when the woman next to me said: “Oh my God, where are you up to? Isn’t it great?” At this point, I was on page 15 of Barbara Kingsolver’s novel Demon Copperhead, late to the party, no real views yet, but there is nothing I like more than a random encounter, so I said: “Yes, I love it.”
By this time, we had lingered so long that the gates had opened and closed and we had to get the train guy to help us. He had read it, too, and really loved it, which seemed to soften the irritation at two idiots who couldn’t exit a station.
