The two sort of problematic tomes which have mysteriously infiltrated my official reading have been Jean Aitchison's The Articulate Mammal, picked up from the library, and Equals by Adam Phillips, which was left lying around on a table in the staffroom where colleagues dump items they don't want for recycling. I've been reading both sort of without meaning to. And these have been supplemented by the last two issues of The New York Review of Books which can be picked up a lot cheaper at Holland Village than other places.
So my promise is to complete all the above before straying again. And part of me, a very knowing bit, is already saying, Fat chance.