I blame my mother.
Magazines; glossies, Sundays, weeklies, monthlies, she bought them all and I would voraciously read and reread them all ignoring Granny’s tut, tuts at the explicit nature of a 1970s Cosmo encouraging all kinds of racy behaviour and obscure yoga poses.
I love the feel, the smell the tangible thing that is a magazine waiting to be opened and explored. Magazines are an affordable piece of luxury transporting us to somewhere more exotic, more learned or just somewhere where cakes always rise and house plants thrive.
I am a magazine addict and I blame my ma’.