The other thing I really love to do on holiday is to immerse myself in a book. Martha and I spent sometime browsing the bookshops of Woodbridge for our holiday reading, which was a charming activity in itself. I picked up James Ellroy's "White Jazz". So whilst lying in a heavily quilted bag in a forest clearing in Suffolk, I was following the antics of a corrupt policeman in 1950's Los Angeles. I love James Ellroy. Like a proto Irvine Welsh, he blasts you with incredible stories of degeneracy, reported from the point of view of a character, usually an utterly immoral anti-hero, with whom you sympathise despite their every motivation and action being a complete perversion of all that we ordinarily hold to be good and true. Told in a sparse vernacular; a kind of tommy-gun slang interspersed with police procedural jargon, the plotting and interleaving of stories is just breath taking. And an amazing sense of place. The city, its political geography, its history, the strata of lying and cheating, silted up with an alluvia of cash. That juxtaposition of L.A. as dream factory, the ultimate city fuelled by hope yet absolutely rotten to the core as most of its inhabitants simply survive on whatever wits they can muster. So my imagination holiday was further reinforced by some big sessions in GTA: San Andreas, where again, other creative genii, this time from Rockstar, threw me into a nasty, brutal vision of L.A. Again they made me identify with an immoral, ruined anti-hero and have created such a deep, well-observed, evil, funny, knock-on-your-ass resplendent cultural artefact that I run out of superlatives. It's very interesting, that while my waking, real holiday (and life) is a squeaky-clean, family-centric study in conformist wholesomeness, I spent a lot of my alternative, mind-holiday in the dirty city that I love, indulging my need for tales of sexual perversity, robbery, blackmail, drug abuse and murder.