I have a confession to make. While as someone hoping to do a degree in English Literature, if she manages to pass her A-levels, and someone who started a blog to have somewhere to write about all the movies she (supposedly) watches, you might assume that reading a book or watching When Harry Met Sally for the sixth time would be quite high up on my list of things to waste my time doing. However, for the last two weeks all I have wanted to do - every time I finish an exam - is get home and read a magazine. I think they're starting to recognise me in my local shop now because every time I go in its either for chocolate - who can possibly revise without chocolate, be serious? - or Elle, Vogue, Company, or any other magazine I can find.
Anything with glossy pages, shiny adverts, beautiful pictures. I want interviews with Cara Delevingue, or Kate Moss, fashion editorials of clothes inspired by The Great Gatsby, beaded flapper dresses, headbands, feathers. I want to read about what eyshadow I should be buying, even if it costs £19 rather than £2.50, and I have only set foot into Mac once and left because the 500 different shades of lipstick scared me. I want to tear out pictures of models in fairy-tale, princess dresses, in photo shoots set in snowy woodlands to stick to my bedroom walls.
I want free samples of foundations and moisturisers I would never actually buy, glued between pages of adverts and articles about hair products. I want the free gift that you get with the magazine - whether its a Benefit mascara or a travel size conditioner that smells of coconut and summer.
I love reading about the people who live the lives we would all secretly love to have. The parties on millionaires yachts, holidays to glamorous islands with secret beaches, St Barts, the Caribbean, Ibiza and Hawaii. You can almost imagine yourself to be lying in the sunshine, picturing blue skies and golden sands, enjoying a gentle breeze from the ocean and the palm trees, drinking cocktails and wearing a sparkling designer bikini and sunglasses that don't come from Primark.
There's nothing wrong with a bit of escapism, especially in this grey English excuse for a summer.