This afternoon there came a strange and wonderful package in the mail with the return address of "Gaiman". It had the joy of all unexpected packages and we waited as long as we possibly could, looking at it, before anticipation got the better of us and we carefully opened it.
Inside was a beautiful edition of The Ocean at the End of the Lane that I didn't even know existed, with a cut slipcase and illustrations by the inimitable Dave McKean printed on paper so heavy you could crack oysters with a single sheet of it (if you needed to do that sort of thing).
That's the copy of the book I have and I'm actually finding it difficult to read because it's SO pretty. I'm like 'I can only take this out to read when I'll be sitting in this place free from all chance of anything *bad* happening to the book."
...maybe that says more about me than it does the book.