There were two points I intended to make yesterday, and I don’t think I got round to either of them.
The first was about reading in general. A few months ago (when lockdown seemed like a temporary thing which would soon be over), there were suggestions going round on social media about how to make the most of your time, improve your wellbeing and cope with the changed circumstances. Often these were in the form of lists (spend some time in the open air; eat healthily; wear your nice clothes, that sort of thing), and one suggestion frequently included was: ‘read a book.’ This sort of advice irritates me because, well, reading a book is something to be done for the sheer joy of it, because it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures (or can be), not something you ‘should’ do because it’s worthy, and then afterwards you can tick it off a list and feel smug about yourself. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t engage with ‘Goodreads’, or join book groups. Yes, I know, I know, this is just me being grumpy, curmudgeonly and intolerant of other people’s choices. But the idea of something which feels so essential to me being treated as a kind of challenge to be met and then worn as a badge of honour sticks in my throat (which I know is grossly unfair and judgemental on the people who do go on Goodreads and join book groups).
Anyway, enough of that rant, because however much I love reading, I don’t do it nearly as much these days as I used to. When I do get properly stuck into a good book I remember how wonderful it is, and think: ‘why don’t I do this more often’ and really, why don’t I? It’s not as if there are so many more important calls on my time (well, maybe there are, but I’m quite good at ignoring them). That said, I do get two hours a day of audio drama from the radio (more if I download things from BBC Sounds) – and I can crochet at the same time. But however great the BBC’s available repertoire, it can’t match the stacks of books, unread or re-readable, on the shelves in my study.
Then there’s the telly (which I watch for between two and four hours most evenings). There was a time, in the early 2000s, when I gave it up altogether. We had a big house with a living room and sitting room either side of the front door, and in the evenings Hubby would sit in the former watching the box while I sat in the latter, either listening to radio drama and crafting or reading. Then after I moved out, I had no television in my flat, or when I was travelling, or (except for two months in 2012 when I stayed with Laura) the time after that, until I returned from Prague in 2014.
Run out of words again. More tomorrow.