It occurred to me the other day as we were cleaning out our garage of books – a saga which requires its own post at a later stage – that I haven’t yet shown any of my husband’s reading piles. This is his current mound to conquer; many are from the library. Here you can see some of his favourite authors: Raymond Feist, Jim Butcher, Iain M. Banks, S M Stirling etc. The Paul Jennings he brought inside because he’s been reading the occasional short story to the kids.
I used to pride myself on being a pretty proficient, and voracious, reader; but I must admit that since the kids came along I’ve slowed down considerably. That said, even in my heyday I doubt I could’ve kept up to my husband, who reads several titles a week. I am jealous, yes, but it’s also one of the reasons why I love him.
(The photo isn’t the best one, I apologise. I didn’t realise until after it was uploaded that it was slightly blurry.)
