My idea of luxury now is stopping in at the Charing Cross library after acting class, as the city slides from work into play on a crisp dark evening, and gathering up an armful of books I know I won't have time to read... I have Carol Ann Duffy's anthology, Rapture, for the bathroom and Diana Mosley's essays The Pursuit of Laughter for my night table and Chekov's play Platonov for my handbag. Now all I need is the ability to stop and sit long enough to do more than relish the titles. Perhaps this is like the allure of a whirlwind romance; you never acquaint yourself with more than the cover, thus shielding yourself from the possibility of disillusionment...
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