I can’t imagine my childhood without books.
If World Book Day had existed back in the 1980s, I would definitely have been heading off to school dressed as fellow bookworm and literary heroine, Matilda.
My nose was always in a book. My parents also love them and I know they read to me as a tiny child, but my memories are nearly all of being curled up on the sofa or in bed way past the time my light was supposed to be out, devouring stories.
You can’t beat that feeling of needing to finish just one more page… and another…
I inherited my dad’s old collection of Enid Blyton books and spent much time imagining I was one of the Secret Seven or Famous Five. Later, I climbed the Magic Faraway Tree with Moonface and Saucepan Man.
Naturally, Roald Dahl was king. I started with The Twits and was hooked. The thought of Mr Twit’s beard still make me queasy.
The Animals of Farthing Wood were favourites, if often harrowing (Fox Club Bold left me bereft), along with The Worst Witch, The Railway Children and Charlotte’s Web.
Now I’m all grown up and my day job is about stories of a factual nature, but I still like to lose myself in the pages (no Kindle for me) of a good yarn.
Joining my book club almost ten years back really reignited my passion and has allowed me to encounter new stories and authors that have stayed with me.
Books have given me so much – I hope my son will enjoy them too.
He’s only a few months old but we already share a bedtime story each day. I love how it allows me to rediscover the tales of my own childhood as well as unearth exciting new ones.
The best story is always one that’s shared.