Hubble bubble, the Christmas pudding is now on its long boil. Four and a half hours and counting.
I’m so paranoid about forgetting about it, I’ve got ‘PUD’ written on my hand in purple felt tip and I’ve put reminder notes in key places such as the stairs and on my pillow.
I was walking past the bookshop in town this lunchtime and I spotted the most perfect book to give my non-reading daughter for Christmas. I’m not going to say what it is juuuust in case she ever looks at this.
Can you imagine what it’s like for me having a child who doesn’t love reading? I just can’t fathom it. It kills me what she’s missing out on. Imagine not reading Ballet Shoes or Little Women?
I was a committed bookworm from the age of six – everyone in my family is. My niece Lottie pretty much keeps British publishing going, as far as I can tell.
Whenever I visit, it’s such a treat to go to her room to see what has been added to the groaning shelves.
It’s particularly nice because I’ve come to know many of her favourite authors, through the network of lovely lady novelists that exists on line (Twitter is a lonely author’s lifeline…) and in real time in London.
But while Peggy’s not a habitual reader, there are certain books she will hoover up. She’s chomped through all the Wimpy Kids like a plague of locusts and weirdly read The Hobbit (which I found a bit of a bore) right through, when she was nine.
She loves Wendy Harmer’s books (I Made Lattes for a Love God was a particular hit) and I’m pretty sure she’s going to like this one…
I never give up hope that the portal into reading may yet be opened in her head.