By ANNA CAMPBELL
When it comes to reading, do you have guilty pleasures?
Books you hide under your pillow rather than display proudly on the middle shelf of the bookcase in the dining room? Covers so lurid that you quietly slip the War and Peace dustjacket over them if you’re planning on reading in the train?
I’ve always been a voracious reader. Some might even say chronic. Seriously, the back of the milk carton will do if I can’t lay my eager hands on any other printed matter.
I read pretty much everything, although my favourite genre has always been romance. There’s something truly addictive about that dance of the relationship and the characters’ emotional journey and the blissful happy ending.
If it’s a historical romance, well, even better. I get all that other stuff, and men in boots as well!
Sadly, large sections of the world deride my reading tastes. Even more sadly, large sections of the world have no idea what fun they’re missing by not reading romance, but that’s another story.
I can remember a grade 10 maths teacher making me clean out my desk ,chaotic not with the paraphernalia of calculus, but book covers featuring bare-chested heroes and women in nighties with flowing blond hair. Her verdict: “I’d never amount to anything while I read that rubbish.”
I also remember a grade 12 teacher who caught me reading a historical romance when I was supposed to be studying trigonometry.She insisted that reading those books would be no use to me at all and I needed to grow up. Trigonometry is yet to rescue me from any difficulty, large or small, but I’m happy to wait patiently for the moment when it comes in handy.