I actually can’t remember the last time I read a book.
An ACTUAL book.. you know..with a plot and characters and twists and resolutions and stuff?
Since Princess arrived, I’ve had the same book sitting beside the bed. “Making it up as I go along” is a collection of essays and articles by the very wonderful Marian Keyes. It’s perfect for busy mummies, because you can dip in and out of it and you don’t feel like you have to start over again if you haven’t lifted it in 6 weeks. It’s delightful.
But this week, seeing the trailers for The Girl on the Train ignited a little spark in me that I thought had disappeared. I wanted to READ A BOOK.
Not a kindle. Not a screen… an ACTUAL book, made of PAPER and INK.
From the minute I could read, I was EATING books. Indeed, Mother often reminds me that I ACTUALLY loved to eat paper as a baby! 😂 But seriously, the parentfolks couldn’t save the children’s allowance fast enough to keep me in Roald Dahl. In fact, Mr Dahl himself couldn’t write fast enough for me. I remember waiting for the next book. Oh the utter joy when the bookshop in Derry or Strabane FINALLY got “Going Solo” in! (Remember how the Norn-Iron shops ALWAYS had the cool stuff in 3 years before here?) 😂😂
Between Roald Dahl’s masterpieces, I lived in Narnia and often went off on adventures with The Famous Five. Life was good in my little world. I honestly would have read the side of the cereal box. There were never enough words…never enough stories…never an end to where the words could take me.
Reading sent me to places I still only dream about visiting. It kept me company. It taught me that you can escape ANYTHING, forget about EVERYTHING and travel the world with the most interesting people, from the comfort of a chair or under the covers of your “Rainbow Bright” Bed.
My favourite place in the world to read was at a hedge in one of Dad’s fields, where I used to hide from my 27 siblings 👭😂 with my book and a cushion and a bottle of diluted juice! It was close enough to home to hear Mum call us for dinner, but far enough away that I felt like I was off somewhere magical. (I still read there. I’m writing this from that exact spot. It’s where we built our house. 💖💖💖)
And the amount that I read as a child MIGHT have influenced my career choice! 😂 And it’s why I read to the girls EVERY NIGHT. I can’t even threaten no story at bedtime, because it’d upset me more than Mini-Me! 😂
It breaks my heart when I meet teenagers who honestly have only ever read the books they had to read in school. They see it as a chore…as a punishment even. So when I can get them to actually ENJOY Shakespeare or a novel, or Heaven Forbid, POETRY, it makes me happy. Do they all enjoy it? Probably not, but it’s not for the want of trying! 😂😂
Before I became a Mummy and TIME got sucked into some other dimension, I read lots. Mostly Chick-Lit if I’m honest…much to annoyance of the Him.
“How do you read that muck?” (He’s never gotten over Bridget Jones 2!)
“I teach John Donne for a living. This ‘muck’ doesn’t require me to think!”
(The Him loved to read too. But then he met Jim and Jim is so needy that The Him rarely has time to now read anything other than edumacational stuff.)
So The Girl on the Train? Have you read it?
Apparently it’s a superb piece. And I want to read it before I see the movie, so I’m sitting here sniffing the pages and a little part of me is 10 again… I’m off on an adventure.
Train departing Platform 1…