Where does the time go when you're lost in a good book?

It hadn’t happened in ages. By ages, I mean years. I looked up and there was the time, and it gone. And I don’t know where it had gone.

I was stuck in a book. And by stuck, I mean wedged. Trapped. I needed to get to the end of it. I wolfed it down. It was a page-turner. Not literally, it wasn’t enchanted but I had no awareness of the pages turning. It was the type of book with the author’s name in huge print on the top of cover and the hard-hitting title on the bottom of cover. Usually on these ones there is a fuzzy photo of a bridge or a woman running into the woods. These are the books bought in the last newsagent before the departure gate, next to the Double Deckers and the final temptation to get a neck pillow that may ultimately disappoint.

I couldn’t read it fast enough. 390 pages in two days. Time grabbed on a train, in bed, on the... er … facilities. Once that body turned up I was hooked. (I mean in the book, not in my own life. I’ve got nothing to hide. Excuse me, I need to make a phone call.)