I can now officially call myself a bookworm and I am thrilled about it. I’ve spent a lot of the past decade quite anxious, always looking for ways to calm down. During that time my Dad, who I was very close to, died and my previous marriage broke down. It’s only now, aged 38, that I understand how great reading is to get out of my own thoughts – especially on those nights that my brain won’t stop, refusing any kind of rest.

Before I discovered a love of reading, I would just stare into my phone, with its blue light that brings you endless amounts of information that you most definitely do not need at 1am when you are meant to be sleeping. It was a recipe for earth shattering anxiety.

I didn’t really start reading alone until I was around nine, when I discovered Goosebumps, The Babysitters Club – all of the good stuff. But throughout my teenage years I was too busy going out with my pals, refusing to wear a jacket in the winter and drinking dolly mixtures of whatever we could find in our parents booze cabinets. It was all simply much more important than relaxing with a good book.

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