Scouring through a second-hand bookshop in Adelaide over the summer, my fingers stopped when they reached a book covered and bound entirely in orange. I picked it up – The Wandering Years by Cecil Beaton.
It was the first time I’d heard of his name (or was it? It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place a face, or a career). I opened the book up to discover it was a lifetime worth of diary entries from a man who appeared to have had quite the full one. So I bought it, based on the few lines I had read within it.
I haven’t read The Wandering Years yet, but I know I am going to love it.