- Joined
- May 15, 2009
- Messages
- 481
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I can’t remember how old I was, but from the geography of my memory I must have been under eight, when my grandmother caught me reading a book in a meadow, rather than pick mushrooms. She thrashed me with a fallen branch which broke, and I’ve never forgiven her.
I still remember the pinched look on the librarian’s face when I booked out the three books, the maximum allowed, from a small local library. She scoffed, “You just pretend to read those books.”
Only a couple of weeks ago, my partner found me reading at the back of the dark garage. She shouted, “I thought you were supposed to be cleaning up the dog shit.”
This morning I discovered that I’m not the only one:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/mar/03/a-week-without-books
I still remember the pinched look on the librarian’s face when I booked out the three books, the maximum allowed, from a small local library. She scoffed, “You just pretend to read those books.”
Only a couple of weeks ago, my partner found me reading at the back of the dark garage. She shouted, “I thought you were supposed to be cleaning up the dog shit.”
This morning I discovered that I’m not the only one:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/mar/03/a-week-without-books