I love reading. I love it enormously. I love it in winter, in front of the fire and squashed down into an oversized sofa, eating my way through a whole net bag of mandarins. I love it in the summer, lying on grass, being warmed by the sun, normally drifting off for a mini nap every few chapters, reading them again to remember and sleeping again. If you haven’t done it recently, I recommend turning off all the screens early in the evening and spending a good few hours settled down and reading. It feels like nourishment, after flitting between screens for hours on end.
It seems rather apt to me that World Book Day, International Women’s Day and Mother’s Day are so closely linked this year – they seem so strongly linked together to me. When bored at home, I would just head to the floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with my mum’s books, run my fingers along the spines and choose something to read. I am a complete kindle convert, or at least I thought I was, until I realised my bookshelves don’t look like the shelves of someone who reads. They have travel guides, illustration books, but very few novels – they’re all on the kindle. It does make me a little sad that I won’t organically develop a collection of novels that I’ve read and held onto. Of course, those books I have read electronically and loved, I could re-buy to keep, but books aren’t quite the same if they don’t have holiday sand between the pages, scuffed corners, reminders noted in the covers and general evidence of where you first bought and read them.