Dick Francis, that is, who sadly died yesterday. I can remember eagerly awaiting the release of his newest novel (and really didn't care whether it was him, his wife or his son who wrote it) then sitting down and reading it in one go; usually within a couple of hours.
There was no point in even talking to me when I had my nose in a book, I was oblivious to the world and wouldn't surface, willingly, until I had read the last word.
The book would then join the rest of the book collection, sorted by order, until I took it down again for another refresh of the story. No matter how many times I read it, the story was just as fresh as before and just as gripping. I loved the tales of racing and enjoyed the way the stories ran, though I will admit the earlier books were better than the later ones where racing almost took second place.