I always read and I always have: before bed, on the weekend, on holidays, and whenever else I can manage it. I’ve been known to re-purchase books if I accidentally leave them at home. When I don’t have recourse to a bookstore or bookshelf, I find myself reading whatever text comes to hand—parking tickets, business cards, the back of the cereal box. I can’t help myself—it’s a compulsion. I’m not proud of it, but I even read at red lights.
When I was a kid, I loved nothing better than finding somewhere to hide (I don’t know why I hid, only that it made the whole experience far more enjoyable) so I could while away hours with a book. My mum was an antique dealer, so we spent a lot of time traipsing around second hand shops—I used to love the dark corner at the very back of the store where handmade shelves groaned under the weight of discarded books. I put together a pretty impressive collection of Trixie Belden, Secret Seven and Choose Your Own Adventure books that way.
These days I always have around twenty books jostling for attention beside my bed. (I think it’s genetic—my mother’s side of the bed has always looked exactly the same!). Some sit there for months and I dip in and out as it pleases me; others sit unopened for quite some time, receipts still pressed within their first pages; then there are the beloved books: those that take over my life for a period of days, demanding that I keep reading in a burst of energy until I reach the very end.


Last updated on December 21, 2009 by Kate Morton