The other day I had the privilege of reading a story book to some children. Not my Niblings - they're all a bit beyond that, although the littlest one does like to read the My First Numbers book, out loud, from memory.
I did the voices. You bet I did the voices. And every glossy page I turned over seemed like a brand new adventure for me, and for them, so I added intonations and pauses wherever I saw them.
It's a lovely thing to do, reading out loud to people. I wonder why we stop reading to each other? Perhaps we imagine that someday our proficiency in the art of deciphering writing has reached the level where it's no longer required. The learning is over?
Tosh.
If it's poetry, we recite it - certainly my Mum likes that; it kept her smiling in hospital when I took in some of my silly poems about trees, flamingos, and cathedrals. She likes to hear me express things.
And audio-books are popular too. That is definitely somebody reading something to you, for hours on end.
I just think there's something sweet about reading something for someone else, that helps you appreciate the language. I'd do it with Shakespeare if I could! But the Niblings wouldn't last through Act I, Scene I... of anything... before they'd be itching to get playing Fortnite or Minecraft. And anyway, there's no way I could do it justice.
Of course, there is definitely something special about children encountering stories for the first time too. There's a kind of wide-eyed wonder to that moment that affects you all, even when you know what's coming.
Plus, for the briefest of moments the other day, my mind was absorbed in a world that was way outside of my phone, my inbox and my anxieties. Nothing in the world could have dragged me back. There's magic in well-crafted words, I reckon. And it often feels like the world needs a bit of that.
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