I am an obsessive reader. One loved book sparks off the frantic accumulation of other books by the same author. The exhaustion of an author's backcatalogue leads to a search for similar authors or even just the start of a new body of works. My bookshelves and my collection tell a story of the different stages and passions of my life. The Enid Blyton, Sweet Valley Twins and Goosebumps books that tell of my childhood, the Agatha Christie's that accompanied my entry in teenagehood, and the countless authors and genres that keep me company in adulthood.
My daily commute is a much prized opportunity to selfishly indulge in my passion of reading. Those two precious hours each day in which I can simply disappear into another world, another life, and emerge refreshed and ready for the challenges of the day ahead of me. And sometimes my bookish friends do not desert me; instead of patiently waiting within the pages of my book until my next train or tube journey, I find them floating around in my thoughts as I answer emails or check data. Comforting companions and muses of my everyday life. As such my handbag always contains at least one book. And if I am close to finishing my current read, I will have the next book in my bag ready to take the place of its predecessor.
But for the past few months I have hit a bookish slump. This happens occasionally, where my mind needs a rest from the distortion of words, characters and stories that find themselves swirling around there. My books have stayed on their shelves, and my handbag has secreted away magazines and newspapers instead of its usual companions of paperbacks and hardbacks. But in the past day or so my bookish passion has been softly reawakened by a gentle yet enthralling tale that celebrates family ties, female relationships and lovingly created handcrafted goodness. And what a welcomed return to my bookish habits it has inspired!
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