Holding a new book, its cool weight and smooth shape sitting perfectly in the pocket of my palms, it feels familiar, like a trusted old cat, and as I stroke the paper cover I can almost hear it purr. The pleasure in my finger tips palpable as I trace the title, and the anticipation akin to unwrapping a pleasing parcel. Then, opening the book, the scent of fresh pages of words, words of fun or beauty or edification, sidles up to my nostrils and I can’t resist bringing the book up to my face and breathing in deeply. It’s like entering a fresh world and for a moment I am the only person there; standing at the beginning of things with all these pages of possibility stacked before me, their texture and their content inviting me to dive whim-ful in.
Alas, “Mummy, can you help me to…..” and the book returns to the table, closed and persistingly pristine, with the aroma of virgin pages lingering on my fingers and in my thoughts until the next happy pause.
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