It’s harder here for real life to intrude I am writing this column from a beach in Cuba. My fringe has been slicked back by the sea. One half of my face is already the colour of cheap rosé. I am lying under a palm tree to save the other half from a similar fate. And I am reading. Reading is glorious on any holiday. Reading is glorious full stop. But reading on a beach is something special – though I can’t speak for those who live on beaches, or close to them, as to whether or not this is a pleasure dulled by familiarity. Once you’ve lived in Oxford for years, you sometimes don’t see the magnificent limestone building, just the Pizza Express within.
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