I often dream about laying by a pool somewhere, under a clear blue sky, the sun beating down on me as I laze around with a book in my hand. Few things are as relaxing as settling down on a sun lounger, with no other plans for the day than to devour a good book.
Despite this, I’m not really a summer girl; I’ve always preferred the winter, especially when it comes to reading.
For me, nothing can beat that sensation of curling up on the sofa under a blanket, the fire blazing away, while I submerge myself in a story. I love the sensation of getting caught up in a book while outside the weather is cold and miserable, the rain lashing against the window.
The long winter nights were made for books, for staying up late with the light burning, that feeling of needing to read just one – more – page. When winter comes I always want to hibernate: that usually means I long to stay at home so I can read as much as possible.
The festive holidays make that possible. All year I look forward to that quiet time when I can relax with a stack of novels, away from busy days at the office and constant emails.
It’s my idea of heaven.