It is mid-afternoon on a Tuesday in May, and I am sitting at my desk in my study, writing. My study is a tiny space on a mezzanine floor in a one-bedroom apartment. There are double-height windows at one end of the apartment, which are also the only windows into the home. The apartment is on the ground floor of the block, and set into the side of a slope. From where I am sitting, I have a view of the red-brick back of the building next door, its rooftop dotted with laundry. I can also see the crowns of trees in the park beyond, and their colours are autumnal in the fading light.

At this point in the year, I have finished my professional reading, and am now able to read for pleasure and for my own research. It is a very different exercise from professional reading, where I set myself a rigorous schedule, make copious notes, and try to consistently compare and contrast one book or poem against the next, in order to make difficult decisions around a work’s inclusion in an award shortlist or in a poetry journal. Reading for pleasure, and for one’s own work, is an indulgence, one which I don’t take for granted.