Picture the scene: Mr. Bsag and I are both reading in bed. He is reading 'War and Peace' by Leo Tolstoy, and I am reading the lighter (in all senses) 'Hogfather' by Terry Pratchett. I'm feeling a little out-gunned in the worthy reading department, but enjoying 'Hogfather' for the nth time, nonetheless.
As Mr. Bsag starts to get sleepy, he begins to lose his purchase on the book. Suddenly, it slips out of his grasp and all 1,392 pages hit him smack in the face. I know that it's unworthy of me to be amused by my husband being assaulted by works of classic Russian literature, but I can't help it -- I snigger a bit like Muttley. "What?", he says, irritated. "Nothing", I say innocently.