SOME of us think of books as an endless source of illumination, inspiration, consolation, education and a lot of other -ions, as well as a window on the world of others, an insight into good and bad experiences we'll never have, an introduction to new subjects and thoughts, to delights we might never know, countries we will never visit, or simply good entertainment.
Others see books as a waste of time. There must be a lot of them when someone who spends £90 a year on an average of 12 books is considered, in book-trade terms, as a serious reader. No wonder I always get a smile from local booksellers and a Christm
as card from Amazon.
I could blame my mother for this, but considering the pleasure reading has given me she deserves the credit every parent should get who encourages a child to read. A voracious reader herself – with a number of singed cakes, burned stews, late teas and an unbeaten record in WI quizzes over the years to prove it – she bought us books early and often.
I still have the copies she bought me of Wind In The Willows, Kim, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Not forgetting the William and Dr Dolittle books, Sherlock Holmes, Mill On The Floss and the Don Camillo short stories. Not forgetting either the excitement of every Friday and that week's Rover– six or seven serial stories, each about 1,500 words, for 4d – and the Illustrated Classics series that introduced me to Dickens.
Those early reading memories came back to me, full blast, on a recent visit to Seven Stories in Gateshead; an unlikely setting for "the only exhibition space in the UK dedicated to the celebration of British children's literature," albeit closely linked to north of England authors David Almond and Robert Westall. But once found it is a potential stairway to a lifetime of enjoyment for every child who enters.
As it happened the present centrepiece – From Toad Hall to Pooh Corner – reminded me not only of what I love, but what left me cold. Goodness knows how many times I've read Wind In The Willows with its muscular animal heroes Badger, Mole, Rat and blowhard Toad, but it took only one reading as a boy to convince me that Winnie the Pooh, Eyore and Piglet were mush and that Christopher Robin would never be in a winning football team.
The great thing about reading, like life, is that you're learning like that all the time. I didn't get to Roald Dahl until reading to our own children, laughing out loud with them at Little Red Riding Hood "whipping a pistol from her knickers," marvelling at the inventiveness and humour of The BFG, sympathising with Matilda.
At Seven Stories I was not only reacquainted with Dahl's work and other anti-heroes such as Dennis the Menace and William, but introduced for the first time to Horrid Henry and Clarice Bean, a great character created by Lauren Child.
So great that I bought a Clarice book as an early birthday present for Ebba – about six years early for someone who has just been introduced to the Bookworm Babies section – and naturally I had to read it to check suitability. I might have to buy another on my next visit to make sure.
The full article contains 569 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
