Contr...

I am the child who walked to school with their nose in a story, becoming daily more short-sighted. As long as homework didn't get in the way I'd read six books a week (except the whole week it took me to read Dr Zhivago when I was 12). I am the person who told my tutor on graduation day that I was looking forward to getting back to reading and when he said, 'Oh, everyone says they'll read more history when they graduate,' I unwittingly silenced him by saying, 'I don't mean history books'.

I've read on trains and planes, in waiting rooms and departure lounges. I've read myself to sleep, I've read myself through illness. Then three-and-a-half years ago I stopped reading. I tried but I just couldn't concentrate and when I picked up a book I'd started it was so long since I'd been there that I couldn't remember what had happened. Family, friends and blippers recommended books which sounded enticing but I couldn't. In the hope of recovery I've carried one borrowed paperback around with me for so long that it has almost disintegrated. But...

I finished it ten days ago when I was in Liverpool. I was thrilled and I'm now half way through the next one. So when I was walking towards my bike after work today and spotted two books in the basket my heart did a little leap.

Then I got to my bike. Down foolish heart. Who said you can't tell a book by its cover? (Though I admit its index is a better clue; the index of one of them was nothing but bible references.)

I put them in some other lost soul's bike basket.


Apologies for being so useless at commenting at the moment but I'm off to read.