So my smelly little brother has washed the last of the Glastonbury filth off himself, and Andy Murray is yet again making me lose the ability to write in the afternoon, which can mean only one thing: the summer holidays are nearly here.
Only I am not really allowed a holiday this year. Not because I have been bad. But because I have spent the hundreds of pounds that would have whisked me and the menace off to the Maldives, or more realistically Minehead, on a new kitchen. Which, like, I KNOW. How grown-up am I?
And yet my heart isn’t breaking. Because the thing is, I’ve always been more of a home girl. Partly because sleeping in a bed that someone else has just departed is a bit icky unless for some reason it is in a very expensive hotel, and I don’t do camping for about a bazillion reasons. But also because I just don’t feel the need to escape; I’ve always found I can do just that in the comfort of my non-sleeping bagged home via the amazing teleporting invention that is called THE BOOK.
I have spent weeks in Paris thanks to Sarra Manning’s Nobody’s Girl, and several years in New York being guided by Anna Godberson and her addictive Luxe series.
And so these are my holiday destinations this year. Some I’ve never seen, some I’ll be staying with old friends. And if I run out of places to visit, I’m sure I can find plenty more on the shelves at Mr B’s Book Emporium.
Where will your books take you this summer?