Oxford life. Thirtysomething challenges. Music leanings. Anything really.

I have finally embarked on John Peel's autobiography. One chapter in and once again I have the strange sensation of feeling a loss greater than any relative of mine that has died so far. His voice jumps out from the page, the humble self-deprecation present and correct.

The thing that surprises me most about this emotion is the empathy it gives me with those who felt the same at the loss of Diana. "How can someone be so attached to a posh princess?"

I am sure those same people would ask "How can someone be so attached to a dumpy DJ?"

I was, and I am looking forward to indulging in this act of idol worship as I read his book.

And it's going to be a damn sight better than the book I have just finished, The Fall, by Albert Camus. Another wonderful book group book: worthy and, well, a little tedious.