We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. It was never noticeable. We weren’t the poor kids. And it wasn’t until recently that I realised how much my parents struggled under the weight of us. Since this, evidence of our economic status has presented itself, these tiny truths sealed in zip-lock bags, like the way I carried a tub of Vaseline in my school bag for chapped lips when all the other girls were out collecting Lip Smackers. My clothes were hand-made, or hand-me-down, and all my books came from the library.

I was then, and still am, a hungry reader. And though I had a collection of treasured favourites, the books I read were borrowed and returned every Thursday. This cyclic devouring became a ritual I’ve carried into adulthood. Books, I believed, should be consumed in a week. As a child this was achievable. But with work and tutoring and my own writing, the busier I became as an adult, the books I read diminished. Soon only works 100 pages in length could be finished before going off.