Ice and fire

When I was a child I read all the time: walking to school as I felt my way with my feet and elbows, at mealtimes hoping no-one would see my eyes dipping under the dining table, in bed before the lights were switched off and under the bedclothes with a torch afterwards. Somewhere among my heaps of books is the notebook in which I recorded every book I read. War and Peace took the longest, when I was about 15: two weeks or so though I confess to skipping some of the war chapters.

For most of my adult life I've had a book in my bag for journeys and queues and have panicked if I'd forgotten it. When I started writing and needed disciplined time, the book was ousted in favour of a notebook. About five years ago that, in turn, was replaced by a camera and I have fallen out of the habit of reading.

It is strange and sad being exiled from a land I can reach if I stretch out my hand so I am returning. I have stopped blipping every day and a couple of weeks ago I promised myself today for reading.

As it turned out I had to walk past the ice this morning to have Friday's wound dressed but as soon as I was home I lit the stove and I have read in front of it all day.

Now I'm off to read in bed.