Picture it now: you’re sunbathing on the lush grass of Costa del Clapham.
One sweaty, suncream-covered hand clutches the latest Booker prize nominee, staining it with oily fingerprints, while the other reaches for a frosted glass of rosé with a hefty serving of ice. Sunglasses are firmly on your head, your parasol is providing the perfect amount of shade, and there’s a light breeze wafting through warm air. Life is good.
