Reading In Bed

Most mornings I wake up and lie there for a little while charting my course through the coming day: how can I wish the day away fast enough to climb back into the sanctuary of my cosy bed and take up my place in one of the many virtual worlds to be found inside my beloved Kindle? Yes my darlings I am one of those: a lady who would rather be reading than doing almost anything else. Life does get so outrageously in the way of all that is to be experienced and enjoyed within the pages of a book doesn't it? While reading is wonderful wherever one finds oneself, there is a special place in my silly heart for reading in bed. Once my evening meal has been devoured and my body relaxed by a salty hot bath, my whole being yearns to slip between the sheets, a fuzzy grey blanket around my bare shoulders and the pillows arranged just so...

I light a musky candle at my bedside and spritz my sheets with lavender. The room is lit by a single lamp at my bedside and the room immaculately tidy because I cannot sleep in chaos. It is comfortably cold, the heating never turned on in the bedroom and the window, even in the depths of Winter, ever so slightly open. On my bedside my two Kindle's lie (yes, two! A Kindle Fire and the original -darling- Kindle with keyboard), and next to the bed a little vintage basket in which I now keep Simple Abundance and whatever vintage books I have happened across during the most recent of my treasury hunts, each one welcomed into my literary fold by the addition of a vintage postcard for use as a bookmark and place to make penciled notes upon...

My preference now is to read one of my Kindles at bedtime: the weight of the device in my hand is just right, and though I know traditionalists shudder, and some get terribly sniffy about the whole affair and declare that because they are book lovers they would not contemplate the purchase of such a machine, forgetting methinks that their beloved writers trade in words not paper and don't give a damn really how those words are conveyed to their readers hearts and minds...

When I am tired, the glare of the Kindle Fire is too much for my befuddled eyes, so I pick up my original Kindle and click through the pages merrily, often deep in to the early hours, in the complete darkness, while Richard snores beside me - my way lit by my darling little Kandle, a tiny Kindle book light (Kindle candle, get it??), I keep in the little black velvet bag it comes in at my bedside. While I have found most Kindle lamps to be the most awkward of fiddly little wotsits, the Kandle is  unobtrusively gently lit and small enough not to be a bother and both me and my Mum who is similarly addicted to her Kindle, are delighted with it...

Last night I Kandled my way through The School of Essential Ingredients and within the first paragraph received a warning of what it is to find too much solace in books...

"Lillian had been four years old when her Father had left them, and her Mother, stunned, had slid into books like a seal into water. Lillian had watched her Mother submerge and disappear, sensing instinctively, even at her young age the impersonal nature of a choice made simply for survival, and adapting to the niche she would now inhabit, as a watcher from the shore of her Mother's ocean."

Heavens! But it won't stop me. Not when books like this one from Erica Baeurmeister exist. The School of Essential Ingredients is a delightful soul-warming tale of a Monday evening cooking school and it's respective attendants. Full of quiet, elegant prose, it is a light book resplendent with the kind of truths that gently poke at ones own heart.

For this then, is what reading is to me:  a reminder that even in the middle of the night, I am not alone. That other women feel like I do...