It’s been a depressing week of reading. It’s exam season at work, and all my reading time has been taken up with marking. Exams end this week, so I’m hoping to be back to my regular reading patterns soon.
So, even though I have the following books on the nightstand, only a page or two of each have been read so far this week:
The Son by Jo Nesbo (lent to me by a student)
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (savouring it)
It never ceases to amaze me how much I miss reading when I’m not able to; it’s an addiction; it’s food; it’s a necessity. Does anyone else feel this way?