In real life I read at night in bed, sometimes 15 pages, sometimes one, before sleep takes me away. It annoys me when one book takes two weeks to read: I feel frustrated by my reading pile, looming in the periphery, taunting me. I miss the feeling of being lost in the book, swept away. Books, in my opinion, should be read fast and furious, greedily in huge slices; and the only way I can read a book the way I really like to read a book is on a sun lounger, on holiday, with nothing else to do. So at least a month before I go away I start to lovingly plan my reading. I take six books for a two-week vacation, plus one for luck. This is what I gulped down like a greedy book-guzzling piggy this summer.