I struggle to get through a meal without perusing the blurb on the back of the sauce bottles, and while lying in the bath my eyes can’t resist lingering on the product description for my shampoo, and wondering exactly what Micro Moisture Serum is.
The truth is I have to read everything I see.
Yes, I adore a gripping novel (I can’t go to sleep without getting through at least a few pages of my latest paperback), but I simply devour words wherever I go, much like a caterpillar voraciously munching its way through all the vegetation in its path.
I can’t therefore berate my husband for being glued to his iPhone when he’s had to put up with me being enthralled by the back of cereal packets for years. And would you believe I completed an A-level English project on the language of cereal packets? I’m sure marking that assignment was the highlight of my lecturer’s career.
But when it comes to books there’s nothing like a satisfying page-turner, and for me it’s all about variety.
I love Bill Bryson’s hilarious travel books (especially Down Under because I’ll always have a soft spot for Australia ever since I spent a year backpacking), but I must admit I found A Short History of Nearly Everything a little heavy for bedtime reading.
Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles had me in tears, and I’m also a fan of Jay McInerney (Bright Lights, Big City) and Angela Carter (The Bloody Chamber).
At the moment my nose is buried in Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory, a dark, disturbing read like nothing else I’ve read before, perhaps even surpassing James Herbert’s The Fog for shock value.
And as I sit here typing, I’m already considering what to choose next. Maybe the back of my son’s Shreddies box is worth a look?