alking into Tate Britain with my friend Kate, I unzip my rucksack for the bag check. I rarely travel lightly as I always chop and change with my reading desires, so usually have a portable library on my back mixing up books on cloud formation, neurodivergence and stories about women who unpick themselves and discover they appear to be part ant and part sewing machine (quite a – my favourite book of the year so far). As I lift the flap of the bag, I jovially say, “Books, books, books, books, books.”
