Over to you Annabelle ....
Like most things, my Mum had strong opinions on books. Those who hadn't read Winnie the Pooh or The Wind in the Willows, had - according to her - clearly had a deprived childhood. Alice in Wonderland and Alice through the Looking Glass were two more of her favourites, although I could never really get on with either. She bristled with annoyance at Enid Blyton books not being considered suitable for school reading, and I devoured Malory Towers, St Claires and the Five Go...books. I also adored the Chalet School stories; a set of books about very posh girls, in a very posh school in Switzerland. Perhaps it appealed to an early love of travel (I later became a travel writer).
She loved poetry too; introducing me to T S Eliot's Old Possums Book of Cats at an early age, and trying to get me to love Keats and Byron when I studied them for A level English. Betjeman was one of her favourites. But poetry and I never really got on
I remember my parents house being full of books; shelves filled with a diverse mix of classics and
Even now, many years after I lost her, I only have to hear a quote from Winnie the Pooh, or catch a glimpse of the Wind in the Willows on TV, to remember how much she loved those books, and the joy reading them with her gave me. In this way, I think books are like music; they can transport us back to the time we first read them, or to people we shared them with. One of my greatest sorrows is that she never got to read mine. I hope she would have enjoyed them.
Thank you Annabelle for a wonderful guest post. I love and relate your comparison to music, there's certain books that just the sight of take me back to sitting on the floor beside my Gran on a cosy Saturday afternoon.
The People We Were Before was published in hardback last year, and in paperback on 23rd February 2017. Look out for my review coming soon.
If war is madness, how can love survive?
Yugoslavia, summer 1979. A new village. A new life. But eight-year-old Miro knows the real reason why his family moved from the inland city of Knin to the sunkissed village of Ljeta on the Dalmatian Coast, a tragedy he tries desperately to forget.
The Ljeta years are happy ones, though, and when he marries his childhood sweetheart, and they have a baby daughter, it seems as though life is perfect. However, storm clouds are gathering above Yugoslavia.
War breaks out, and one split-second decision destroys the life Miro has managed to build. Driven by anger and grief, he flees to Dubrovnik, plunging himself into the hard-bitten world of international war reporters.
There begins a journey that will take him ever deeper into danger: from Dubrovnik, to Sarajevo, to the worst atrocities of war-torn Bosnia, Miro realises that even if he survives, there can be no way back to his earlier life. The war will change him, and everyone he loves, forever.
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