By The Book

I had one of those mornings this week when I had to be up ridiculously early. By early I mean the space between night and morning - where it’s no longer night, but it doesn’t feel much like morning either.

I was enjoying the relative silence on a chair by the kitchen, when my bleary eyes rested on the bookcase on the other side of the room and I smiled.

I loved books as a kid. I loved everything about them. I loved the shape and the feel of them, the smell of the paper, and the treasures that would await in words and pictures when you opened them.

Whenever I was sent to tidy my room, I’d sit contentedly amidst a carnage of abandoned Barbies, bits of Lego, and forlorn stuffed animals, and arrange my books on a wee white Formica bookcase. Oblivious to everything else. I'm a bit more organized than that now. As a part-time, fully-functioning, adult I am fairly capable when it comes to keeping house.