This could be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve always read, reading has gotten me through all the tough things in life. I read on average 2-3 books a week, or I did. Now I’m lucky if I read that many books over a couple of months. Unless you count baby books, I read a lot of them – at least if Mems is feeling cooperative, sometimes all she wants to do is eat her books. Julia Donaldson is one of my favourite baby book authors, but somehow it’s just not the same as getting into a proper book, that is a book with more than 20 odd pages. Now A Squash and a Squeeze may be fabulous, as is Room on the Broom but I miss reading proper books. You know the kind where you can get lost in their pages for hours on end.

If I had hours on end to spare at the moment I’d probably sleep. I miss proper books and I miss sleep. Sleep. Sweet sleep. Closing my eyes and waking naturally many hours later, and not because my daughter has an insatiable desire for milk. “Oh wouldn’t it be loverly…”

I have read a few books, mostly on the Kindle app on my phone as it’s small enough I can snatch the odd chapter while feeding my daughter to sleep. Having said this, I must wait until her eyes are mostly closed otherwise she a) doesn’t sleep and b) tries to take the phone away from me. I’m a bit concerned that we have a small screen addict on our hands already. So I can read maybe a chapter or two a day, if I’m lucky. Sometimes I just don’t bother. There’s always the internet to peruse and then I’m so tired concentrating on books is just difficult.

However, once tomorrow is over with we are starting a new routine where I get the odd evening to myself uninterrupted by a cranky baby. Hooray for the end of Open University studying. I shall read books again, the house shall be vaguely tidy again. I shall have sleep!