More than Writers

I was especially interested to read Fran Hill’s very moving piece earlier this week about a military mummy reading to her child, and Philippa Linton’s piece on Tuesday on The Springs of Imagination, because my thoughts had been roaming in a similar vein as I thought about what I would write this month. I had been thinking back to my childhood, and the experience of my parents reading to me, and the thing that impelled my thoughts in this direction was Martin Jarvis reading Richmal Crompton’s Just William stories on Radio 4 every morning this week. The delicious hyperbole with which he enunciates the text is very reminiscent of the way in which my mother used to bring those same stories to life for me as a child. It got me reflecting on my introduction to story via my parents. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t read to – indeed, I think for my mother half the point of having children was to be able to read to them and introduce them to the stories she loved, a delight I shared...