Chez Spud

I was slow to get to this book. A friend thrust it in to my hand back in the Autumn with a cheery, “I think you’ll love it”. That’s all the recommendation I need from a trusted source. I stashed it away and promptly lost it. Just as I was becoming mildly anxious about it, it revealed itself to me on the bookshelf and I took that as a sign that its turn had come.

There’s a quietness to Out Stealing Horses, a stillness that puts me in mind of Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow, Cold Mountain and The Girl with Glass Feet (oh I loved that book, must re-read). Naturally, being unable to recall the details of any book that I’ve read within weeks of having finished it, I can’t tell you why. But if you’ve read any of those books, then you’ll understand what I mean about the stillness, the long lines. Out Stealing Horses is set in Norway, and weaves its story between the present day and immediately after WWII. The story is narrated by Trond, a teenager in the post-war years and now a man in his late 60s. Trond’s relationship with his father is the focus of the plot, and the life-long influence and implications of a tragedy to which both Trond and his father are party to (albeit indirectly). Actually the plot seems secondary to the beautiful, lyrical language of the book and its thoughtful observations. It’s far from purple prose, but the parred down descriptions of the Norwegian countryside together with the lack of any substantial analysis of the protagonists’ personalities and motives make for a very spare, elegant novel.

The other book on the go at the moment is ‘Stop what you’re doing and read this‘, which I mentioned last week. In it, Mark Haddon (he of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time) mentions that the pleasure of reading is “rarely about plot, which is probably why I can’t remember what happens even in some of my favourite novels”. Ah, perhaps that’s my issue too? Certainly Out Stealing Horses isn’t plot driven, though what it is that pushes it along instead is hard to define. Very possibly its elegant language. Haddon, in the same essay, says that find its hard to “fall utterly in love with novels in translation”. He says that a novel in which the words are used “merely to convey a story seems to me a waste of words. I want to hear the instrument cherished and played exquisitely”. Of course I can’t know if Out Shooting Horses is a fine translation or not but, regardless, it’s certainly not a waste of words.

I’m now half way through The Reader (Bernhard Schlink), again a translation. The translation seems more apparent than in Out Shooting Horses, or perhaps I’m more attuned to it with Haddon’s thoughts rattling around in my mind. But the plot is more engaging, and the language less compelling.

Out Stealing Horses…B++

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I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this. I’m no book reviewer, and I don’t particularly enjoy reading book reviews if I’m honest. I much prefer it when someone I know and love thrusts a book in my hand and says, ‘Try this. I think you’ll enjoy it’. Or, ideally, I find an author I adore and then I read everything they’ve ever written. The latter is a poor strategy for new/dead/slow writers but it’s a reasonably rewarding strategy.

So why am I even contemplating a kind of book review? Because I’m hopeless at remembering the details of books I’ve read, regardless of whether I loved/hated/tolerated them. I can categorise books I’ve read according to those groups, but I can very rarely tell you why. I’m only ever left with the impression of a book, or the whisper of a feeling, but the details escape me within days of having finished it. That’s never unduly bothered me until I decided to buy my mother-in-law my favourite reads of 2011 for her birthday a few weeks back. My plan had been to write a few notes on a postcard slipped in to each book, explaining why I loved it and why I thought she’d enjoy it. The truth was I just couldn’t bloody remember anything beyond having loved the book and an urgency to share it with fellow bookworms.

‘Book of the Week’ on Radio 4 last week was ‘Stop what you are doing and read this’, a collection of essays about reading and why it’s important and what it means. Five of the ten essays were abridged and read by the authors for Radio 4. I was fixed to the sofa today by a very poorly back, and it was compelling listening. The book is now on its way to me courtesy Mr Amazon. I think I enjoyed Jeannette Winterson’s essay the most, she spoke so simply and honestly about the power of the written word to elate us. In particular she talked about how reading isn’t ‘down time’ it’s ‘up time’. I’ve never really considered that. Reading, for me, is what I do at bedtime, on trains or (in my old life) on the beach. I wouldn’t dream of reading during the day as my ‘quick pit stop’ activity. Somehow crochet, blogging or generally mucking about on the internet don’t count as ‘downtime’ in my twisted mind. I haven’t especially enjoyed any of the Winterson books I’ve read, but her words struck me powerfully enough to want to buy the book of essays and pore over hers in particular. I’ve picked out her programme of the five because it’s the one that struck me most powerfully, but the other four were stunning too … each in their own particular way. iplayer is your friend if you fancy it but be quick! Only a few days left.

But how do you review a book if you don’t like reading them and aren’t very good at it? The answer, I would think, is that you don’t. You leave it well alone. Or you perfect the art of the quick and dirty review. Here’s mine of Good Behaiour by Molly Keane:

“Set in 1930s Ireland and narrated by Aroon, the less loved awkward daughter of an increasingly impoverished aristocratic family. A book that improves as you read it, tackling parental disappointment, upstairs/downstairs relationships, homosexuality, infidelity, maternal coolness and – especially – the destructive power of self-deception. It’s a quiet kind of book. I didn’t learn much about Anglo/English relations though that’s the backdrop to the novel and nor was it especially well observed. But I enjoyed it nonetheless and it was worthy of a read. It’s a Persephone kind of book, akin to Whipple but less elegantly perceptive ”

I can’t imagine it’s a book I would rush to recommend, but it’s a good solid novel. I’d give it a B.

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I’m squirming in my seat as I write this. The words ‘I was wrong’ might actually have to come out of my mouth. That never sits comfortably with me to be honest. Still, good for the soul and all that.

In the past I have been quite forthright in my criticism of reading books in any other format other than ‘the right one’, i.e. an actual book with paper and a cover. I may even have blogged about how reading isn’t just about the words, it’s a sensory thing. I may, possibly, have been very critical of MrSpud and his strange love of reading books on his iphone.

Hmm. Funny how things come back to haunt you sometimes isn’t it? Damn you blog, for providing evidence of my fickle ways…

Two weeks ago I read three books in five days. But that’s not what this is about. I had a day of very, very long train journeys and I decided to experiment by downloading a couple of books on Kindle for the iPad (which, I gather, is on its way out?). I was dubious. I was so dubious I took my book, an actual book, as well which perhaps defeated the point. In one day I galloped through Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman and I loved it.  Encouraged, though shame faced, I quickly downloaded Tina Fey’s Bossypants. I don’t even know who Tina Fey is really, but I enjoyed that too.  In a rush of KindleLove I then bought Grace Dent’s How to Leave Twitter and that was pretty good too.

I’m no book reviewer, and this isn’t a book review. En passant I will mention that Caitlin Moran’s book is absolutely extraordinary, it blew me away actually (once I’d got over its no mucking about straight up tell it how it is style). I have never considered myself a feminist because, it turns out, I never really KNEW what feminism means anymore. I thought it didn’t apply to me. Turns out I’m stupid. You’ll have to read it to get it. If you’re a woman, or a man who loves women, you need to read it. Hey, I read it in a DAY. I don’t give over a day of my life for any old crap you know.

But this isn’t about the book. This is about the medium for the reading thereof and I think you know what’s coming.  I read the book on my iPad. And I really, really enjoyed the experience. I thought it would be a kind of clinical experience, and it is in some ways. But the convenience, the beauty of the backlight typeface, not having to hold a heavy book is quite beguiling.  I’m ashamed of myself.

I don’t want to fall out of love with books (the real ones). I LOVE books, they do so furnish a room, they feel and look just right…I keep postcards and newspaper cuttings in them (well, I did when I read newspapers..before the internet came along…hang on….there’s a theme here). I would hate never to feel the weight of a good book, smell it, admire its cover and run my fingers over the paper to feel how it ‘is’. But there’s a place in my life now for online reading.

I have a half-read copy of The Tiger’s Wife by my bed. It’s been half read since I started reading How to be a Woman. Since then I’ve read Bossypants (on the iPad), How to Leave Twitter (on the iPad) and I’ve made a start on Home (also on the iPad).

Shameful. Absolutely shameful.

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Lucky me! Look what Postman Andy brought? A super gift from Kim at A Box of Chocolates, all the way from Australia. Can’t wait to get hooking a couple of these fine little fellows, although a trip to the craft shop is needed as they are embellished with all manner of lovely things.

I especially like the Catbot …

Alas so does someone else…

… and that was the end of the photoshoot as he wanted to sit on the book. Noooooo. Thanks Kim for a lovely and very unexpected gift. A little Crobot will be on its way to you soon…

Also on my hook this week was an Apple Jacket. Yes, a jacket…for an apple. I know, entirely pointless but sooooooo cute. See here, pattern from Mollie Makes:

See, so cute! Who could resist? Not me…so I quickly hooked one up from the very easy pattern. Or so I thought…um…umm…anyone see anything wrong?

Not much of a jacket, more a hat…a smurf hat I thought. Cry. Looks way better on Elsie…

Also in my mail this week…’Cambridge, Norfolk & Suffolk Unlocked’ from Unlocked Guides, a fantastic guide book written specifically for children.

This is NOT a sponsored post by the way, though I was sent the guide free of charge. They didn’t ask for a mention or a review, but I genuinely think it’s a super product. We’ll be testing it out over the weekend as we’re going on a trip. Watch this space…

It’s my Blogoversary tomorrow by the way – YIPPEE! And I’m having a giveaway to celebrate, and no it’s not that crappy Smurf Hat…swing by tomorrow for details.

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I did it. I wrote a book. Not a very long book, not long at all really. And not a very good book, but good enough.

I signed up ages ago for The Art House Co-Op‘s ‘Fiction Project’ but the lovely Moleskin notebook sat empty and neglected for weeks. I had a few, very half-hearted ideas but I never got futher than a brilliant first sentence in my head. Then work started getting really tricky and I, sadly, decided I just didn’t have the time or headspace to write the book.

Fury struck a few weeks back and I decided I absolutely WOULD write the damn thing. In usual fashion I just threw myself  in to it one day. Beyond the prompt supplied by the Art-House Co-Op (‘If you lived here’) I had nothing. Nada. Just the first sentence. And the rules of the project say that all the books must be handwritten, so no fiddling around endlessly re-drafting onscreen unless you’re organised enough to do a rough draft and then a fair copy by hand. No time for that, I just started writing and took it where the words led me.

Writing in long hand is hard, really hard, when you’re used to typing. I’ve used muscles that were retired long ago. And the process of thinking and committing words to paper is so different than writing on screen. Paper seems so permanent somehow. I didn’t revise or scratch out at all. If I started a sentence without properly thinking through the rest of it, I just had to work with what I’d got. LIBERATING.

It’s been a long, long time since I got involved in creative writing and I surprised myself at how much I enjoyed it, especially the physical process of getting the words down. It’s not a great piece of literature, but it’s a great achievement for me and I did what I set out to do. And that will do for now.

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Oh, the Fairy Hobmother paid me a visit…immediately winning points for a comedy name…for ‘she’ is actually a ‘he’…and he’s not very fairylike since he works for Appliances Online. Perhaps the appliances are powered by actual fairies? Anyway, when Fairy Ian isn’t busy selling washing machines he wafts around the internodes looking for places to sparkle his fairy dust and, erm, free stuff.

I commented on a post at Imperfect Pages and the Fairy Hobmother was watching. Fast forward to today and a little pile of Amazon vouchers dropped in to my inbox [claps hands]. Not sure what to blow them on yet, I have quite a mix on my wish list including the gloomily named (though much bigged up by a friend of mine) Shattered: Modern Motherhood and the Illusion of Equality, I am the messenger  (although that’s a risky choice, based on my love of the same author’s The Book Thief)…and the curiously named and much recommended The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Or all three perhaps?

If you’d like a visit from the Fairy Hobmother and **important** you live in the UK…please leave a comment because perhaps Fairy Ian is watching…peeping from behind his stack of white goods…ready to wave his wand.

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**Disclaimer: this post will not be of any interest unless you live in the UK and have a young child…to the rest of you: move along…nothing for you to see here…**

Oxford University Press proudly boast that their reading scheme, Oxford Reading Tree is used by ‘most primary schools’. I have no reason to doubt that this is true, but the question is ‘why?’. Why do schools persist in using the ORT, an old style ‘look and say’ reading scheme when, in the wake of the Rose report of 2006, all schools now teach reading using synthetic phonics which should have made those ‘look and say’ books instantly redundant?  In fact, the Rose report specifically singled out the ORT (albeit without naming it) for criticism. The only reasonable explanation is the sheer cost involved with replacing a whole reading scheme which, I assume, must run to thousands and thousands of pounds. It always comes down to money I suppose.

The Department of Education sets out the criteria for reading schemes here. It quite clearly states that schemes should support learning to read using synthetic phonics and should;

• “ensure that as pupils move through the early stages of acquiring phonics, they are invited to practise by reading texts which are entirely decodable for them, so that they experience success and learn to rely on phonemic strategies”.

The italics are mine. So, the government wants early readers to have access to books which are ‘fully decodable’ (using phonic strategies) yet many (or most if you believe OUP) are still using ‘look and say’ schemes. It’s madness to give children the tools that they need to make a confident start with reading by teaching them phonics, and then throw non-decodable books at them. Likewise, why bother with a solid phonic grounding if you’re going to use a reading scheme which relies heavily on picture clues and repetition.

Synthetic phonics doesn’t work for every child, but it works for most children and all the research has demonstrated that it leads to a higher level of literacy than other methods. The old ‘look and say’ method often works very well in the early stages of reading since most children (a) have fantastic memories and can memorise quite a large number of words by sight and (b) most children will happily ‘guess’ the word once they’ve got the first letter and the picture is giving them a clue. But that’s not reading! As I understand it, the problems can start once their memories can no longer cope with having simply memorised words by sight…around the 150 word mark. Many children will stall at that point, or when the picture/word ratio means they can’t simply guess. And if they don’t have a solid grounding in decoding then what strategies will they use to actually ‘read’ the text?

Bertie (5yo) is reading a mix of ‘look and say’ books (sent home from school) and ‘decodable books’ (provided by us), having learnt to read at home using only decodable books before he started school. At some point all readers have to move to ‘non decodable books’ of course, so in some ways it’s not a bad thing to mix things up like this. Diggy (4yo) is in the early stages of reading too and, again, only uses decodable books.

I’m not much of a book reviewer but, for anyone interested, I used the excellent Cbeebies ‘Fun with Phonics’ books to teach both boys to read (having taught them the basic phonics). I really can’t recommend these enough, very clear and simple with absolutely minimal use of tricky words (such as ‘the’…which you can’t really get away with in any book!). Quite different than ORT which chucks in all manner of random tricky words right from the start. Why?

Neither of my boys really ‘love’ that whole Jolly Phonic actions for sounds, so I didn’t bother with that. We just learnt the sounds straight up through repetition, mostly using a poster on their bedroom wall which presents the sounds in the ‘usual’ groupings (set 1: s,a,t,i,p,n, etc etc).

From there, I moved on to the excellent Dandelion Readers. Again, really outstandingly good. They work through each phonic, digraph etc in a very methodical way. Then they work through split vowels, alternative spellings for individual sounds etc. The illustrations are interesting, but intentionally do not give clues to the reader to avoid guessing.

Other schemes we’ve used and enjoyed are Rigby Phonics, Project X (fantastic, non-fiction books aimed at boys), Floppy’s Phonics (again excellent, fiction and non-fiction…and published by OUP!), AlphaKids and Ladybird ‘Superhero Phonic Books’.

Interestingly, Bertie finds reading non-fiction books more of a challenge than fiction. I suppose it’s because there is less repetition in a non-fiction book (no names that constantly crop up, no ‘he said’, ‘she asked’ etc etc). Storybooks, and in particular those Biff & Chip ORT books, are often very formulaic and he whizzes through them because of this. Non-fiction books are a slower read, since he will stop to ask questions or discuss issues in a way that he doesn’t when reading a story. Plus, we’ve learnt about how to use a ‘contents’ and ‘index’. All good stuff.

It won’t be long before our ‘reading scheme’ days are behind us and, whilst we’ve enjoyed so many of the books we’ve done as ‘home reading’ I won’t be sad to see the back of Biff ‘n’ Chip ‘n’ Kipper ‘n’ Floppy and the gang. Though I do enjoy hunting for the ‘hidden’ glasses…:-)

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All my life I’ve loved stories. My mother taught me to read when I was 3 and, well before I started school, I’d immersed myself in books and stories. I’m an only child, frankly it was a lonely life at times but stories were my companion. Now I am Aged, I still love to read but time and energy is limited. The days of curling up for hours and hours and hours with a good book are distant memories, alas. Not for a minute do I ever regret my children but one of the more painful casualties is reading. These days I manage 30 minutes or so a day. Pitiful compared with my Before Children life.

But stories don’t just come in the written form, far from it. And, of course, before writing and printing and all that jazz…stories were an oral tradition. It’s a dying art, the skill of the verbal story teller. Whoever does that these days, other than professional story tellers and camp fire aficionados? I’ve wracked my brains but I don’t think, in all my 40 years, that I’ve ever sat down and listed to someone tell a story off the hoof. I feel more than a little bereft about that to be honest.

That said, stories come in many shapes and forms. What I lack in formal story telling experience I make up for in the collection of ‘everyday’ stories. In short, I am a story catcher. This is the first time I’ve labelled it as such but I just happened to get to thinking about it, and realised that ‘story catcher’ is a most excellent expression for it.

I love your stories. I love the stories of people that I meet. I crave them and revel in them, I repeat them and cherish them. In particular, I love the CONNECTIONS between people. The six degrees of separation are so alive and well in my life that it’s laughable. The friend, on the other side of the country, who knows the friend I knew through school 25 years ago…the friend whose daughter who is friends with someone who lives in our village whose husband used to live in the house next to the house we used to live in…the friend whose daughter goes to school with Bertie who went to school with a friend I know through working with her in the 1990s…etc etc etc.

I’m nosy, I’ll admit it. And I talk a lot. And I like to talk, and people like to talk to me. I can generally get the basics of peoples’ life stories sorted in 10-15 minutes but, so I’m told, without any kind of aggressive or hard questioning. I ask the questions because I am genuinely fascinated and interested, more and more, to find the threads that bind you to me.

I was thinking about this earlier today, and how I actually love my ‘story catcher’ role. I’m no story teller, beyond my own tales, but I’m a respecter of the tradition of story telling and I passionately adore the ‘personal story’ tales which, after all, are the basis of every story. As I was thinking about it, a little bell of familiarity was ringing in the back of mind. I grubbed around a bit and then, with a little horror, realised that I’ve turned in to my grandmother.

As a child and young adult, her tales bored me. She knew the name of every person who lived on every street she had ever lived on…and their relationship to each other and connection with every other person in the town, or so it seemed. Conversations with her could be lengthy, and a little tedious if I’m honest, as she’d have to set the scene by giving the context of xyz person and how they fitted in to her oh..so…complex mental map. Another relation of mine (on the other side of the family) often used to marvel at her wonderful memory, and her amazing ability to absorb detail…and then retell tales with such colour and verve. I wasn’t convinced.

Towards the end of her life, when I was in my late 20s, I began to appreciate her absolutely astonishing gift for absorbing the stories of the every day…and catching all the threads that bound them together…plus her lively and compelling story-telling style. Alas I wasn’t absorbed enough to think to capture them, or record them in any way. Shame on me.

So here I am, 15 years on, slowly turning in to my grandmother. I live my life differently from hers. Her life was closely bound to her extended family, friends and neighbours…all of whom lived in very close proximity to her. My life couldn’t be more different in that respect. Despite that, I find myself slowly reeling in the individual threads of the stories around me…friends…neighbours…friends of friends…real life friends…virtual friends…family… acquaintances…I am basking in your tales…wrapping myself in their finer details, the good and the not so good. Daily I take up each loose thread and weave them in to my web of wonderful tales. I am the story catcher…the dreamer of dreams…the teller of tales.

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Things that are sticking with me right now:

• The King’s Speech…not so much Colin Firth, who was a given, or Helena Bonham-Carter, who managed not to annoy me, but Geoffrey Rush. How was he SO overlooked in all the kerfuffle? Of course the Wet Shirty Man will always invoke hysteria, but Geoffrey Rush’s performance just ‘sung’ to me. He charmed, he stood firm, he stood by what he believed in…and he let his face do all the talking. Apart from the talking of course.  I really thought he gave an outstanding performance and it’s stayed with me since I saw the film.  First up for sticking with me: Geoffrey Rush.
• Delayed Gratification…a brilliant new publication, ‘the UK’s quarterly almanac’. Published in hard copy only, at an eye watering £12.00 a copy. It’s a new concept and, to my mind, a totally inspired one. It reviews the news, day by day, for the previous 3 months with a view of taking an objective look at the issues of the day with the benefit of hindsight.  I heard about it on Radio 4 and was completely intrigued. £12.00 later and I’m hooked. I really hope they can make a go of it, but £12.00 a copy is a hard sell although it’s BEAUTIFUL and it’s stunningly well put together.  Second up for sticking with me: Delayed Gratification.
• John Darwin, the bloke who faked his death 5 years ago and was then discovered living it up in Panama with his wife thanks to the power of the internet.  Too boring to go in to but I read a review of the case in Delayed Gratification. What’s interesting is that Google Images did for him, he allowed a photo of himself and his wife to be take in the offices of ‘Move to Panama’ and an amateur sleuth tracked him down. Seems idiotic of course, to fake your own death for the insurance money and then have a piccie taken. But when he disappeared Google Images didn’t exist.  Just a small reminder of how our privacy is slowly eroded, with our own permission, every..single…day.  No wonder there’s a growth industry in specialists who ‘erase’ your online presence after your death. Whether real or faked. How times change. You can’t even disappear anymore without the internet catching up with you. Third Sticky: the internet.
• Black Swan…crap film. Didn’t have anything to say as far as I could make out? I suppose there could be something of interest to say about mental health, but it was buried under a pile of bloodied feathers.  The dancing was wonderful and, to be fair, Natalie Portman was stunningly convincing as a ballerina. Costumes were striking blah blah but, beyond that, OH MY GOD it was just really black and scary. It’s stuck with me because it was gruesome. The bit where Natalie Portman sprouts feathers through her back, and where her toes fuse together…makes me feel queasy just writing that. Fourth sticky [with blood]: dodgy swans.
• Loving Frank…anyone read it? A historial novel about the life, and more to the point, loves of Frank Lloyd Wright. I knew nothing about him, beyond his architecture. Now I feel like I too much. He left his wife and six children for a client, who left her husband and three children for him. They brought the kind of shame and scandal to their families that doesn’t exist anymore, but was alive and kicking in the early part of the 20th century.  I could rant all evening but the whole sorry tale brought the rage on. They justified it because (a) he was a ‘higher’ being who didn’t feel the ordinary person’s rules applied to him and (b) she thought she could trot out the ‘happy mummy happy child’ argument’. Oh, and she was going to do something ‘big’ with her life, but basically just trotted around the world after Frank Lloyd Wright, dodging reporters and trying to find a role, missing her children and eaten up with guilt about the whole thing.  Worse, FLW didn’t pay his bills and thought he could justify not paying the ‘little people’ because of his ‘art’.  Seriously, I have the rage.  I stayed up late last night reading it and RAGING. And then she died, and her children died. Their manservant went crazy and set fire to the house, and killed her and her children with an axe. Hideous. Fifth [and raging] sticky is Frank Lloyd Wright and his stupid, misguided fancy woman.

And that is it. Those are the sticky things in my head right now.  Anything sticking in yours?

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I can’t bear to think about or discuss moving or packing or unpacking any more. Our other house has flooded, with exquisite timing, and it’s very miserable for our tenants and stressful for us.

So instead of ‘that’ I’m going to think about ‘this’, which is much more joyful. Here’s Bertie on Christmas Day, lounging around with all the books he’s read with me since September. Not including books sent home from school we’ve ready nearly 70 books together, woohoo! Add in the school books and it must be knocking on for double that.

I love watching him gobble up the words, blending the new sounds, extended phonics, alternate spellings, the joy of the ‘magic e’ and the curse of those tricky words. I love listening to him read to Diggy, or reading to himself (finger pointing oh..so…carefully) and being part of the transition from halting to galloping along has been a true joy for both of us. “Oh! Time for my reading Mummy!” he says and peers under the cupboard where, for reasons I can’t remember, I keep his stash of ‘home’ reading books. When he’s finished one he likes to take the next one out, practice the new sound/sounds it introduces and study it. I admire his diligence and his enthusiasm is massively infectious. I’ve found that I have to look at the next book too, and study the notes for introducing the next sound etc that we’re about to tackle. Teaching Bertie to read had meant I have had to lean HOW to do it, and it’s all so different from the way I learnt. We’re both on a journey…I’m learning how to teach reading…he’s learning how to read but much, much more importantly he’s learning to love literature.

Can you instill a love of literature in someone? Does it follow that ‘can read = loves reading’…I would think not. So how does the joy of reading for reading’s sake come about? All the research says that good literacy for children comes from witnessing parents reading books, having books around the house, reading books together and all that. But how does that light the fire for a child to LOVE books and really know that ‘you’re never alone with a book’.

Bertie likes to pull our books off the shelves, and pick out words he either knows by sight or can decode. He’s so terribly keen to be able to read Asterix, TinTin and Harry Potter to himself…and the Roald Dahl stories he knows. And I’m so keen to be part of the journey, his partner along the road. Nearly always Bertie will read with me, I’m quite selfish about it actually. Mostly it’s because I’m the one who has learnt how to teach reading using modern techniques but, frankly, it’s because I love love love it so much. MrSpud reads voraciously, but never ever novels…he likes history, biographies, science stuff blah.

Me? I like novels. Sometimes biographies and especially books of letters. And I love discussing books, sharing ideas for good reads, reading books reviews. Loving literature goes way, way beyond just reading the words.

We’ll see how it goes but I’d love to read with my boys every night until they leave home. I read this wonderful article in the New York Times a while back about a father and daughter who read together every night for over 3,000 nights. They made a pact, and stuck to it. What an achievement! It’s not just about the words and the mechanics of reading…it’s about finding a love of literature and shared passions together. I am so thrilled when I find people who adore my favourite writers, it’s like we’re in a club together.

I’m eager for my boys to be in the club. They might not like my favourites, but if we could find new favourites together I would just adore it.

Loving literature…loving that boy, his cheeky smile and his ever growing pile of ‘already read’ books.

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