Surely reading in the bath is one of life’s great pleasures? In fact I’d argue that this is one of the best places to read a book. Wallowing in warm water, perhaps scented Neal’s Yard bath oil – though I certainly don’t insist on that – maybe with a glass of wine or, better, an icy gin and tonic, at one’s elbow – what could be more sybaritic? Though actually it is only plenty of hot water and a book that are essential as a way of combining two of my favourite things. Looking back at my first term at university I see myself in a bath on the top floor of Latimer House, a fine Edwardian building in the grounds of College Hall in Leicester, reading Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy for what in retrospect seems hours on end. Did my fellow students get to the point of slipping notes under the door? I rather think they did. I was doing a degree in English Literature, which also encompassed Greek tragedy, American literature and so on, so I suppose I could argue that it was work in a way. But really I was reading widely and voraciously just for pleasure and eighteen is a great age for that. I still read in the bath, though it is rarely for hours these days, and it is one of the foremost reasons why my ebook reader will never completely supersede the printed book. I have been tempted once or twice, but I so far have managed to refrain from reading my Kindle in the bath. That way disaster lies. No, the answer is to have at least two books on the go – I sometimes have more – and make sure one is always appropriate for bath-time reading. So currently I am reading as a paperback, Tail of the Blue Bird by Ghanaian writer, Nii Ayikwei Parkes, in preparation for next week’s meeting of my book group. On my Kindle I am reading Seventy-Seven Clocks by Christopher Fowler, the third in the Bryant and May series.