There was a time in my life that reading books felt as enjoyable and obvious as coffee in the morning. I lugged bags full of books across continents, read on friends’ couches, in bed, at cafes, in parks and on every sort of transport you could think of.
Then came children, social media, the smartphone and – the final death blow to my once robust bibliophilia – the pandemic. I hardly noticed it happening in real time but, before I knew it, my fractured attention had been spread so thin it simply couldn’t bear the weight of even the easiest of reads in print.
