I used to read quite a lot. I suppose I still do, albeit in bursts of 140 characters or less. In my defence it’s difficult to concentrate on anything longer than that when you have two boys outside the door shouting, “Daddy, are you having a wee or a poo?”
Aside from Twitter, my reading habits are now almost entirely based in the children’s section. I stopped looking at ‘must read’ lists a long time ago after accepting my brain will forever translate any word after ‘must’ as ‘sleep’.
Luckily the boys love a good book, and if I’m completely honest I’m actually far happier reading about the Pirates Next Door than any of the gubbins Dan Brown sees fit to publish.
Recently though our reading has taken an evil and dastardly turn. It’s become contaminated. Infested by a new breed of literature that until now was completely foreign to their bookshelf. Something so awful and soul-destroying I wouldn’t be surprised to discover it was written in a dark basement by an evil and jealous sibling of Julia Donaldson. These are books that the boys are meant to read … to me!