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This week I’ve had a crush on a book. She’s slim, stylish and cultured. She made me feel younger than I find myself to be in my schedule of responsibilities (urgh). Even though I was already reading something else, something longer, by an author I’d read and loved before –felt committed to, even, I found myself blurring the rules for this book. It was my handbag book – the book I’d take to my daughter’s piano lesson, the dentist’s waiting room, the one I would read standing up in the kitchen while the pasta water simmered – but then it became my downstairs armchair book because when the dinner was gone my hunger to return the book was not, and then in an act of ultimate betrayal to the tome on my bedside table, I took the book upstairs, and went to bed with it, earlier than the night before.
I expect you’re already imaging a plot that needed to be completed to get some relief from, pace that I couldn’t outrun or characters that just needed to kiss already, but it’s not like that, honest. This is a book I just liked spending time with, I just liked talking with it – I just liked how it made me feel.
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