Since a child I’ve held a guilty secret. I was warned that nothing good would come of it. That I would waste my life and life would pass me by if I did it. I used to hide in a shed in my garden to do it. Sometimes I’d take torch to bed to do it so no-one would know I was at it. My first time was a magical experience, the second was an adventure and the third … who knows by then I was hooked. When I lived in Paris I was so lonely I spent all my spare time – at it. When I started work it became weekends only. As my life became busier I would binge on holidays and never engage in it outside of those precious weeks. Now I’m somewhere I could do it all day long. No one would know. However, I still have that terrible feeling of guilt.
So my question? Is reading a book for pleasure pure idleness?