Reading Matters

I'm going to start posting up the books I've read, partly as a reminder to me, but also in case anyone out there is looking for recommendations.

Choosing books is more difficult for me these days. I tend to leave that long list of books I haven't read but wish I had until I have a chunk of time to devote to them, then greedily devour them one after another when I do get the opportunity. I also rely heavily on other people's recommendations.

As a child, I spent many happy hours perusing the shelves of our beloved 'Albion Bookshop' (now sadly closed). It was how my love for reading was fuelled. Admittedly, as a teenager, there was competition for any available cash I had. Posters for my bedroom (sourced from 'Athena' of course), and sale bargains from the upper floor in 'Snob', jostled for position in my list of needs and wants, and so I discovered the concept of the second hand bookshop, a wonderful way of developing an eclectic taste in reading.

I used to be tempted by the 3 for 2 offers at 'Waterstones', but I've grown bored with the rather prescriptive fare. What I really want is to discover books for myself, by browsing the shelves in a local bookstore, knowing there's a wide choice of titles (Methvens did this so well). Or I want to hear about a book from somewhere, go along to my local shop, physically be able to lay my hands on it, read a couple of pages to see if I think it's my sort of thing and then go home with it tucked under my arm. So many times, I've tried this approach only to find the book isn't in stock because it's not in popular demand. Then I end up ordering it on on-line because then I don't have to make an extra trip to go and collect it. Yes,I do know search engines are wonderful things!

I hope my recommendations prove to be of interest to a few people - the worst that could happen is that I recommend something you hate but the best thing is that you might find a new book to add to your own list of favourites.

Everything looked different

‘It’s all a matter of perspective,’ she said. And that was that. Her final words on the subject. Bang! Down came the shutters, just the way they always do. Discussion over. She turned her back on me and busied herself at the sink, running a bowl of hot water to wash one mug and a teaspoon. Rich that. It’s her who’s always on about not wasting the world’s resources and turning the heating down and nagging me to put the paper out for recycling. As usual, it’s do as I say not as I do.

I wish I was older. Eighteen. Then she wouldn’t be able to talk to me like that. She only does it because she thinks I’m still a child. I wish I was older, that I didn’t have to be here. If I was eighteen I could talk back and it wouldn’t matter because I could leave if I wanted. If only I had my own place I’d have the freedom to throw her stupid phrases back at her, argue with her about what exactly she means by perspective, challenge her about her own, make her listen for once. She could like it or lump it and it wouldn’t matter to me because there wouldn’t be that whole while you’re living under my roof thing going on, and I’d know I could walk out the door whenever I chose. Of course I’m not an adult yet, and I’ve no place of my own, and the tiny amount I earn working at the café wouldn’t be enough to rent a cardboard box never mind a flat. Anyway, I’m not quite ready to leave. Not yet.

Come to think of it what did she mean by perspective? I only asked if I could go to the cinema with my friends and then that got us into the whole you haven’t done your homework thing, and your room’s a mess, and then she launched into the usual what are you going to do with your life lecture. And then because she’d run out of steam, she threw in that whole perspective thing.

So I have to put up with being told that I’m at that age when my racing hormones make me incapable of rational thought or making decisions for myself. Then out come those words again. 'You're grounded.' And I wish she wouldn’t say that, because frankly, grounded in its truer context is exactly what she’s not. Oh, Mother!

Bookmarks

I love bookmarks - in fact I've a bit of a collection. Whenever I see one that catches my eye, I pick it up, especially if it's free. They live, slipped inside books, all along my shelves, marking a passage I've particularly enjoyed, or a poem I wish I'd written. And sometimes they mark the place where I stopped reading, a gentle reminder that I can start again whenever I like.

Imagine my delight when trudging round the shops for Christmas gift ideas,I came across a bookmark calendar - a different bookmark for every month of the year. 'One year of masterpieces' as the front cover described it. Each bookmark has a small calendar at the top with a painting from the featured artist below. I chose Gustav Klimt because of the colours and patterns and because they are peaceful and that's good if you want to sit down with a cup of tea and have a relaxing read.

I could have given my precious find away to a friend, thereby solving at least one of my gift dilemas. But instead, I bought it and kept it all for myself, hiding it away until the beginning of January, a small treat for the new year and a present from me to me.