Guilty Secrets

WHAT guilty little addictions do you have? I’m not talking about the big addictions – drugs, sex, rock and roll, 12 pints of wine before breakfast – but the little ones.

Mine is books. I read a review and the next thing I know I’m on the Amazon website and ordering it. The bettter half shakes his head and makes comments like: “Just what we need in this house, another book.”

I have developed the craftiness of an alcoholic but instead of a bottle of vodka in the bread bin, it’s The Blind Assassin in my wardrobe, Anna Karenina under my pillow and A Suitable Boy beneath the bed.

It’s a family thing. We’re forever lugging about carrier bags full of “gear” and whispering things out the sides of our mouths like, “This Nicholas Sparks came in last night. Grade A. Interested?”

“Yeah, I’ll swap you an old Lee Childs, a David Baldacci and a Ruth Rendell."


Then there’s stationery. I have enough in my house to stock a small branch of WH Smith’s, including
dozens of little cardboard filing boxes – and still can’t find a damn thing when I want it.

However, they have come in handy for hiding that complete set of  Booker Prize shortlist books, most of which I’ve read the first few pages and then abandoned. I'm not half as intellectual as I think I am. I’d rather cuddle up with Belinda Bauer and Jeffery Deaver any day.

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