I love books. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I’m obsessed with them. I have a whole list of books (it takes up about 6 A4 pages!) that I want to read someday. And that’s just the ones that a) Amazon have recommended to me and b) that I found on Wikipedia’s lists of books by year… and I only went back to about 1985. One day I’m going to have a library. Not the sort that people visit for the purpose of borrowing books – although I have no problem with people borrowing my books, as long as they bring them back. No, I mean the sort that you see in old posh homes, the kind with matching bookcases all around the walls and a big fireplace. Mine probably won’t have a fireplace, but it will have some incredibly comfy sofas and armchairs for snuggling down in with your chosen reading material. It’ll be great! Unfortunately at the moment I’m not sure I’ll ever have a house, never mind one with a library, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

Anyway, the point of this post… Yesterday, while I was at work, I received a package. I knew it was coming, but wasn’t expecting it to arrive so fast. I went to pick it up this morning. My dad sent it all the way from England and it contained a) my A-level and university certificates, which I need for my job hunt, and b) lots and lots of lovely books. OK, there’s actually only about 8, not exactly lots and lots, but enough to keep me going for a while. YAY! And they’re all books that my dad rescued from being mushed up and turned into toilet roll while he was working at a recycling plant, so I haven’t even read them before. Guess what I’m going to be doing in my free time for the next week or so?…

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