If ever I had read Calvino - and I don't know that I have - it would have been an excerpted chapter in Survey of Italian Lit II. Or possibly my parents read me folktales he had written when I was young. I'm not sure. In any event, I knew I hadn't read this rather famous collection, and idly added it to my mental list.
Several months later, C. had his hair cut, at the same salon. He came home with titles written down on a scrap of paper, one recommendation for him, and one recommendation for me. It was the Calvino again. I knew I really needed to read it now. My hair needed trimming and, as accident would have it, someone else did the work that time. But surely, for the next time, I would need to have done my homework.
Months passed. Late spring of this year, and I'd been taking good advantage of interlibrary loan at the local public library to bring me the Hugo novel and BSFA novel shortlists. The requests were easy, habitual, convenient. I added the Calvino to the list. Several of us had. Months passed.
Three weeks ago, a letter came from the library. My book had arrived. Mission creep set in, and I came home with eight library books instead of simply If on a Winter's Night a Traveller. I read some of the others first, returned them, checked out others.
A few days ago, I began the book. It was fitful, intense, and after two chapters, I took a novella-reading break. I often feel that way about short stories: they are small worlds of intensity, to be dabbled in, one or two at a time. The day after I began, however, I found that I had a single library book due. I'd returned the others or they weren't due yet. No, inevitably, yesterday, the Calvino was due, and another reader had requested it. No extensions.
So today, my major task, fractious and piecemeal, is to finish the Haircut Book. This forthcoming trim now costs me 10p extra in late penalties.