Books, books, books. Wherever you turn in this house there are books. Age appropriate books. Aged books. Ageless books. If you’re looking for it, there’s more than an even chance we’ve got it.
But, it won’t be in the loo.
I know lots of you out there thoughtfully provide a basket or a shelf in the smallest room. Those little Christmas stocking books or a magazine or two will be available to while away any waiting time. Not here.
On the other hand, there are books on my husband’s bedside chest, on the floor beside my bed – I got the smaller chest AND the phone – on a shelf above the radiator. There are books in my writing room, in the living room, in the room that was the playroom, in the spare bedroom. The cookery books adorn a shelf outside the kitchen (and a cupboard in the living room, Shh!) while a shelf in the kitchen holds British birds for that moment when an interesting visitor arrives on the wistaria.
There are romantic novels everywhere. The coffee table in the living room, the kitchen table, my handbag… a girl does not want to be caught out and I can easily keep several stories in my head at once, even complicated detective plots. But, never in the loo.
Don’t know the answer to that, but I suspect, being as we are a back of the cereal packet household, the queues would be intolerable.