I read.

One day I took the dog for a quick walk, telling the family  ‘back in half an hour’.  Four weeks later I returned home.  That day I lost books; my friends, my solace and my brain comfort food.  I stopped reading that day for four years.


I learnt to read sometime before the age of five.  I was fluent when I went to school.  It was something I did, well, fast and confidently.  Too fast for the powers that be.  I was skipping; I obviously didn’t understand what I read.  I was tested again and again before they accepted that I was reading swiftly and understanding what I read.

 

From then on I always had one, sometimes two, occasionally more books on the go at any one time.  My happiest moments in a fairly solitary life.  The flights of fancies the books engendered within my mind when I could be transported to another infinitely more exciting world, as I walked to school, as I washed the dishes or was engaged in other mundane tasks, this was my bliss as I grew up.

 

As a child I belonged to four libraries and most of my pocket money was spent on books.  My parents also had an extensive library of books, and I did read many books that were just way too old for me to understand at the time.  I received something from them all.

 

When I began my travels I never travelled light, I had to be sure of a supply of books, oh for e-books back then!  Some places are remembered partly by the books I read, the wilds of Afghanistan, and the Himalayas had War and Peace running through them; The Seven Pillars of Wisdom was read in the early dawn light of a Sydney seafront.

 

I bought my cardigans with paperback size pockets and handbags to accommodate the same; even an evening bag had to have room, for who knew when your date would be so boring a book would be an answer!!

 

It was a done deal I read.  Then one day I didn’t.

 

 

 


 

 this post was first published on http://didyoueverkissafrog.typepad.com

 

 

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