If the recent unstoppable wave of cosy sims has taught me anything, it’s that my life would be infinitely more tolerable if only I dropped everything to start a life of aggressive vegetable upkeep deep in bucolic isolation. Yet despite all this pro-turnip (and weirdly low-key horny) propaganda, the idea’s never particularly appealed. Tiny Bookshop, though, might finally have convinced me that the time is right: so farewell all; I’m packing up for a new adventure among musty, attic-abandoned boxes and salt-scented air.
