Eight months. That’s how long it took me to read Anne Tyler’s 1985 novel, The Accidental Tourist.

Some people make and break relationships, or sell and buy a new home, or almost grow an entire human, in that time.

At just 353 pages, The Accidental Tourist is not a very long book. And the issue wasn’t that I didn’t love it, and so trudged through at a snail’s pace. It took me ages because I have no commute during which to read (as a freelancer, I work from home), I’m rubbish at reading in bed because the minute I’m anywhere near my duvet my eyes physically cannot stay open, and there’s also my lack of free time and energy thanks to being in charge of two small boys.