Books

As previously mentioned, I’m a bookworm, I learnt to read at 2 and a half and haven’t stopped since.  ‘This is a tale about a tail’ the first book I read out loud to my beloved Dad, who read to me every night, basically I memorised Squirrel Nutkin and regurgitated it to him.  But that’s how I learnt to read, I memorised the story and the words and from then on a love affair with books began.  It runs in the family, Dad loved books, and one of his sisters loved them so much she ended up with a career in publishing.  My mother still can’t understand why I didn’t become a writer, ‘Mum, 2 reasons, lack of discipline, oh and lack of talent’ as evidenced here on my desperately self indulgent blog.  The one no one reads and probably never will – but I don’t care, this is for me to spill to, with absent husband there isn’t really anyone to listen and I am in danger of going mad (ok madder).

Anyway, books.  the ‘intention’ with this section is that I will write about books, the ones I loved, the ones that touched me, changed me, the ones that annoyed me (Eat, Pray, Love anyone? – although the film was ok, I was on a plane at the time of watching), the ones I re-read greedily (all the Chalet girls books, ditto Swallows and Amazons, You don’t have to say you love me –Sarra Manning – so looking forward to It felt like a kiss), the ones I didn’t want to end, the ones I keep buying because I’ve given away copies and then realised I couldn’t live without (Toast – thank you Nigel Slater, Are you experienced – thank YOU William Sutcliffe, Backwards in High Heels – Tania Kindersley and Sarah Vine (and if you haven’t read Goodbye Johnny Thunder by Tania, where have you been? Under a rock!! – just wow, ditto How to be a Woman – LOVE Caitlin Moran.

I should warn anyone who does read this, I read anything and everything, I’m as likely to be found with a Jilly Cooper or Carmen Reid as I am with the Mitford Sisters Letters or The Mill on the Floss, and anything inbetween.  I’ve been known to read Wilbur Smith in times of desperation although the rainy season that we couldn’t get off the island was a particular low point, someone (I suspect a Frontier volunteer) left a pile of Clive Cusslers behind – dear god, painful isn’t the word, mind you with a ‘hero’ called Dirk Pitt………………….

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