The slow trickle of change began during a trip to New York. I was alone and free, roaming the vast avenues, exploring the museums and dawdling along the High Line. After my wandering drew to a close for the day, I often found myself lying on my bed in my hotel, while the rest of the city partied beyond the wood-panelled walls of my miniature room.
Apart from one night, quietly, disbelievingly, watching Clinton and Trump in the pre-election debates on TV, I read books. I read books for the first time in ages, an embarrassing hiatus that I told myself was the result of a busy job and equally busy social life. But really, when I thought about it, hadn’t I been hiding from books? Hiding from their pleasure, their discomfort, their truth? My own truth was that I was unfulfilled, but the truth was also that there was a world of beauty, in all its complexity, that I was choosing not to see, and denying myself the opportunity to be a part of.