Eighteen months ago in a bookstore on Madison Avenue (oh yes, I'm that swanky) I bought a bunch of books with the usual stickers and gold seals printed on the front and packed them into my suitcase. In December, I carried them back to New York with me, returned to the same bookstore and added to the pile. All came back home with me. They then travelled to Florence, back again to the States where, despite a week long delay thanks to Miscount Volcano - yep - they went into the suitcase and returned to London.
They have since been to Syria, Lebanon (where my ereader broke meaning that I started reading the dross that other people leave behind in hotel rooms - but still not the ones I'd physically taken with me), Crete, Budapest, and Brazil.
Those books have travelled.
They have not yet, however, been read.
They make my bedroom look very literary however, should the thought police pass by and scrutinise my bedside table.
My new year resolution?
Surely, it's finally to read What was Lost or one of it's siblings?
No. It's just to stop packing the dratted things.
