In my other life (you know, the one in my head where I actually have the time/money/childcare to do the things I want) I read a lot of books. A mixture of modern literature, a few classics, with some chunkier ‘airport’ blockbusters thrown in as a kind of cranial irrigation. I chat confidently about the Booker prize, and my friends see me as a kind of human lending library for all the must-read volumes that the literary world is talking about.
The reality is embarrassingly different. At bedtime, once I’ve circled a few things in a catalogue, I only manage about five pages of the Observer magazine before falling asleep in a small pool of dribble that I always assure my other half was nothing to do with me. As the week progresses, I complete my beloved Sunday papers by reading the book reviews, vow to buy several of the publications listed, and then start the cycle again. Continue reading…
