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The Colour of Magic

Terry Pratchett's Discworld books have been on my to read list for well over a decade and, after tearing through The Colour of Magic in less than a week, I have to say I don't know why I waited so long. It's not just that I really enjoyed reading it, but also that it was exactly the sort of book I would have loved as a teenager, when my appreciation for all things mad humour (courtesy of an upbringing high in Douglas Adams and Monty Python) was at its peak.

That is not to say that I didn't enjoy reading Pratchett as an adult, far from it, just that if I had read his books when I was younger I might not have been able to keep my sides from splitting... which, on second thoughts, might be a positive? I can assure you, gentle reader, that there were still plenty of moments when the chuckles inside my head reached critical mass and had to escape violently into the outside world; I have not laughed this much, nor had quite so many smiles involuntarily break out on my face like a nasty case of something or other, when reading a book for a long time. A very strong start to a series I suspect I will be reading a lot more of.