I’m 11, 16, 21, sprawled across Nanna’s dusty rose velvet couch with my head resting on her lap watching Midsummer Murders or A Touch of Frost. Hetty Wainthrop Investigates. Inspector Rex. Her lap is the easiest place to relax, my safe space since I was a kid. I learned about fairytales rocking on her knees. I learned obsession from her, the art of getting lost, and the art of reading.

Crime stories—better if it’s a series, better still if it’s British or Scandinavian (although recent Australian contributions by Emma Viskic and Jane Harper have similarly hit the spot)—have always been my go-to for time-out reads. Compulsive, addictive and, most importantly, not relevant to my own writing and reading, I can lose myself in a good cat and mouse chase for hours, even days on end.