As winter comes, and the nights grow dark, she curls up, book in hand, and dreams away its ice.
'Is there anything better than winter?' she sighs, only to answer her own question with a firm 'no'.
Wisps of cinnamon scented steam rise into the frost-laced air as she turns the page. Chapter One.
Of course, this is a ridiculously romanticised view of winter reading… but let's not spoil the fun of this perfect scenario, right? Instead, let's embrace my idealist vision of winter reading through a couple of winter reading ideals…
And so she reads the cold away. For winter's bitterness only makes everything else sweeter.
Do you share this same romanticised view of reading during winter? I know I'm factually incorrect here as, apparently, winter begins in the UK on December the 21st… but it's chilly enough for me to argue otherwise. Also, ignore the scrawled handwriting (I think my handwriting reached its peak neatness sometime last year and has now began the steady decline to illegibility…).