Living somewhere with limited storage has forced me to be unsentimental about books. I’ve loved reading for most of my life, but I only have around two dozen on my bookshelf (not counting my parents’ loft!).
I’m a big fan of my Kindle – portability and space usually trumps having real books. But one book which survived the Kindle inspired cull, was The Wombles.
I found this book at a jumble sale one school holiday, when I was about 7 or 8. It was around 20 years old, and in my childish way as I thumbed the yellowing pages, I felt as though I had some sort of antique.
The story was warm and charming, and I enjoyed it all the more because I felt like I had discovered something which was lost to other people. Just like the wombles collecting rubbish from Wimbledon Common, I had rescued my own bit of treasure from the jumble of other people’s unwanted belongings.
It’s funny to look back on all of this now. The tatty old book – which must have been ten a penny after the huge success of the TV series – is of course worth nothing. But it’s worth something to me. I’ve kept it as a reminder of the way reading it made me feel.
Do you have a book or an object which means a lot to you?