At a book launch the other night, a woman came up to buy a copy. She made bookstoreish small talk as I rang her through - So many books, such a beautiful store, the usual - and then paused, looked at me intently, and lowered her voice.
“I don’t actually read,” she said, as though I could redeem her with this confession. “I have a big collection of books, but I don’t really read them.”
Nonplussed, I managed to ask why.
“It’s such a lonely activity, isn’t it?”
I couldn’t tell her that’s exactly why I like it.