Wet wet wet ...

The M8 this afternoon, teatime. We’re heading home to Dunoon with our granddaughters and their cases all crammed into this 2003 Skoda as it roars along through the standing water after a day of rain, its noise reminding us of our very first car when we got it up to 60mph on a downhill stretch.

And over the noise we’re talking about books. And this conversation has me thinking hard about what we mean by ... literature. Classics. Serious reading. Good books. Catriona (12 in a week) has a wonderful vocabulary, sparkles with creativity, loves reading. But she’s never read Kidnapped, or Treasure Island, or Elidor (a tad more recent).

What do I say? What does the English teacher in me say? Are the books we call “classics” still to be devoured, or are there too many books for any lifetime?

I don’t know. But I’m going to have a wee rummage through my bookshelves while she’s here ...