I’ve always been a reader. I loved books even before I knew what the words said. I loved the feel of them. I loved the smell of them. And, I loved the secrets they held. Before I could read for myself, my father used to read to me at bedtime. It was a special one-on-one time; just him, me and a story. As I grew up, no matter what was happening in my life, I could safely disappear into another world for a while, where good won through; where wonders were waiting around the corner ready to be discovered, and where heroes and heroines would save the day. If I got sick of being teased (everyone gets teased at some time or other), in the lunch break I could always find a safe, quiet respite in the school library. Now, I was one of the lucky kids. I had a bunch of good friends, and I usually got along well with others. Most people who went to school with me, would tell you that I was popular and was never a victim of bulllying. That’s because I quickly learned how to turn those hurtful jabs into jokes, and did my crying at home. When someone said something hurtful about my weight or my glasses or our families’ lack of money, I’d read one of my favourite Wonder Woman comics and think, “Little do they know!” I read everything I could lay my hands on. Before I’d even got to high school, I was reading my father’s books (not always suitable for an 11 year old!) and one of my older sisters borrowed books from the adult section of the public library for me. I especially loved reading the folk tales and legends of other countries, and anything about ancient history. At night, I would dream of being an Egyptian princess, or a visitor to Narnia, or chasing the minotaur through the labyrinth at Knossos, or defeating the evil heart with Charlie in the Wrinkle of TIme. Reading didn’t just enrich my imagination. It stirred my curiosity, it enhanced my language skills, it made me aware that there are other cultures and languages that are just as valid as my own. It brought the world into my bedroom. While I was having fun, I was also learning stuff. I hope the younger generation are also discovering the delights of reading, of story-telling and of using their imagination. I just have an awful, sinking feeling that many of them aren’t. If that is the case, we will all be the poorer for it. What were some of your favourite books when you were growing up?  What type did you enjoy? Did they influence how you see the world?