Books

I have always loved books. My family are readers. So much so that every holiday there is one case purely dedicated to literature. Even if it takes us over the baggage allowance, as a family, the Howes will not back down.



I have always loved stories. One of the first things I learnt to say was "tell me a story". My poor father has told me more or less every single significant (and many many more insignificant) details from his childhood, adolescence, university life, even life as a parent to my sister and I. And despite having heard them umpteen times (indeed, despite living through a lot of them) they never get old.



The first book I ever read by myself were the Milly Molly Mandy stories by Joyce Lancaster Brisley. Absolutely nothing happens in these stories - the stories are entitled things like "Milly Molly Mandy goes for a walk" or "Milly Molly Mandy earns a penny" but I LOVED them. So much so that when told I could name our cat, I chose (you guessed it) Milly Molly Mandy.



I read everything as a child - the Narnia books, everything by Enid Blyton (the Magic Faraway Tree - oh the joy!) Jacqueline Wilson, Joan Aitken, Roald Dahl, Lynne Reid Banks, anything illustrated by Quentin Blake or Shirley Hughes, Peter Pan, Swallows and Amazons, Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, any stories by Louise M Alcott, Mark Twain, E. Nesbit, I could literally go on for pages. Even now, if I'm ill or homesick the only things that can really make a difference is a Harry Potter or One Hundred and One Dalmations.

Since going to university (to read English) I not only accumulated a LOT more books, but I also became much more restricted on space. Student houses are not renowned for their size or grandeur, and nor are books known for their mobility - in fact they are the most difficult things to move due to their volume and weight.

So over the last few years more and more crates have appeared at my parent's house, and I have managed to keep the amount of literature in each of my various flats to an almost well-controlled minimum.

But now I have a flat with the boyfriend. A whole flat, not just a room in a flat which is our home. And (after many an evening of swearing and sweating) he has lovingly put up shelves, and driven crate after crate of books from Queen's Park to Battersea and finally, after nearly 6 years I have been able to unpack my little library.

It filled an evening (I don't have THAT many - I just kept getting distracted by things I hadn't seen or forgotten about) unpacking them, and ordering them to my satisfaction. The Boyfriend did try to help with this bit, but seeing as my sorting process follows no traditional method (alphabetical, chronological, etc) and is all down to personal preference, the poor boy was on a losing side.

The shelves are now done, and filled. And the living room, my living room finally, finally feels like home.