"Maybe... you'll fall in love with me all over again."

" "Hell", I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"
"Yes, I want to ruin you."
"Good", I said. "That's what I want too." "



Sitting in a small Victorian style cafe in Carlisle this morning, I finished the book I've been reading. It isn't a long book but it took me a few months to get through, but not because it was dull or uneventful. I somehow got pulled away from a book I really loved by nothing more exciting than the internet and daytime TV, despite doing a literature degree. Things that are all well and fine, but aren't even close to the fulfilment of finding a great book. And over the past year I've managed to forget how much I love reading. Reading proper books: not news snippets on websites, or blog posts, or 140 characters of whatever. Real books.    

scarf- H&M, earrings- Forever 21, top- charity shop, dungarees- Zara, shoes- Jones the Bootmakers

 Of course, I am waxing lyrical about 'real books' in a three paragraph blog post partially punctuated by a picture of me squinting in the sun in a pair of dungarees. Perhaps I should have popped the paperback in my front pocket. It's certainly large enough: there's definitely room in there next to my phone. Maybe I'll try it later and tweet the results. #Imissrealbooks. All jokes and soon-to-be-trending-watch-this-space hashtags aside though, I really do miss books. And I only just realised today.  
 

 Sitting by the window I finished off the last morsels of story, closed the pages, and put the book down. As I gazed outside I savoured that feeling, until the front pocket of my dungarees buzzed to tell me that my sister's train was arriving.







Title quote from A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

(Thank you Ruth for lending me your copy!)