I sat down at my desk in English, and our teacher (who had this lovely Irish accent) told us to get out our books.

I relaxed a little; maybe she wasn’t going to ask for the papers just yet, or not at all.

Soon, I had forgotten all about papers and typos and smiling girls with grotesque creatures hidden beneath their masks. I had lost myself in the book we were reading.

‘A Pack of Lies’, it was called, and I adored the book with all my heart.

I internally thanked the author for making such a comforting little piece of literature. As we read on, people took turns to read the parts.

Our teacher would assign people to certain characters and the narrator.

It was quite fun. The story would come to life, but other times people would be so horribly dull; some couldn’t even read the smallest words.

One couldn’t pronounce the word bureau, the other asked what ‘isolated’ meant.

I wanted to shrink into my chair.

Am I the only one who actually reads?

And then I remembered another book-lover.