Many people have the erroneous impression that my family and I are either out partying, or having parties, or leading a trying but glamourous life, when nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, there are times when we have spent two consecutive evenings at home — the second evening then does drag a little on the nerves, but I can safely venture that we are as boringly staid as, I suppose, the neighbours. Ugh! In any case, whenever we are at home, even if it is only sometimes, we can be found with our noses buried deep in books, for let no one say that we are not fond readers. I started off by reading from my father’s library, which is where I also learnt about the birds and the bees from an excellent collection of… but let that be. In any case, that task at least was farmed off to the Internet where our own children were concerned, and if they’ve grown up with warped notions about some things, my excuse is that we were hardly any wiser then, or now.
My wife reads intermittently through the night. Which means she’ll probably fall asleep after turning a few pages, but none of us are permitted to switch off the lights because she’ll wake up in a bit, and then she’ll read some more. This means that our bedroom lights are on all night, and my wife sleepwalks all day, and our friends are astounded at her prodigious “reading” even though I suspect she hasn’t actually completed too many books.
I read most frequently in the loo, sometimes (I confess) accompanied by a tot of rum, because that’s the only place I can sit for any length of time uninterrupted by urgent requests to move the furniture around, look for a packet of Kellogg’s in the topmost kitchen shelves, order the groceries or clean out the living room lights. It is embarrassing when friends who call on the phone are invariably told by the servants that the sahib, like all bureaucrats, is always in the bathroom, but it’s a small price to pay for freedom from household tasks. Besides, reading, like writing, is an isolationist activity, and where better than the bathroom when you’re in the mood for a ripe murder-mystery?
My son is an erratic reader, several books down one month, none the next, but he became fond of John Grisham at an early age, which is why he’s now studying to be a lawyer. He’ll realise soon enough how books are usually misleading about most things in life.
But it is my daughter who is the most difficult to please. With literally thousands of books in the house, she’s been known to turn around and say, “There’s nothing at all at home to read.” At first I would offer her a selection, which would all be rejected as “too boring, Papa!”, “too grown-up” and even, once, disingenuously as having “too many words”. But she was clear she wanted to read, which is why, slyly, I started putting books derogatorily labelled “chick-lit” her way. These, I am happy to report, seemed to please her. The only problem: She “didn’t have the time” to buy her own books, so could I read the reviews and keep her bookshelf adequately stocked?
It’s a trifle awkward for a grown man to go to bookstores asking for chick-lit, but then I’m clearly out of sync with the times for, just last evening, at a party, I was pleased to meet a writer of books. “Really,” I asked excitedly, “what kind?” “Darling,” she said, “you’ll love what I write, it’s a genre called chick-lit.”
I guess I no longer have to hide the books I secretly read in my bathroom.
