There is nothing quite like the feeling of holding a book in your hands. I could never understand how people could go a week without reading something. Anything.
I turn the page, ignoring the sound of the electrical currant running though the bulb in the lamp. This is one of those rare times, when the children have all been put to bed, the Master and Missus are away, and I can sit and spend some time with this secret love of mine, and a nice cup of tea. It does not occur all that often, sadly. And I find that I need to allocate time for this private time. This does not bother me though, as making time for the things which are important to you is what defines you and your passions. The thought of being defined by my love of the written word. A love that is nearly as old as I.