Tomorrow, it’s World Book Day – a day which I looked forward to as much as, if not more than, non-uniform days when I was at primary school. World Book Day brings back memories of childhood favourites such as Francesca Simon’s Horrid Henry, Michael Bond’s Paddington and Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox; of dressing up as a character from a book for the day; and of eagerly exchanging book tokens for exclusive World Book Day books. These days, I’m more likely to be found with my nose in a crime thriller or an autobiography, so in honour of World Book Day, I’ve decided to devote a post to a handful of autobiographies that I’ve enjoyed over the past month or so.
Commuting can be tedious, but it can also be an opportunity to indulge in your hobbies – and for me, that means ploughing through as many books as I can whilst shuttling between Cambridge and London King’s Cross. I’ve been trying to read a wider variety of books this year – my usual thrillers and crime fiction, alongside biographies, chick lit, historical fiction, short stories, fantasy, classics and romance novels. I set out with the aim of reading fifty-odd books; I’ve read almost double that. (It’s a good job Cambridge Central Library is so well stocked.) If, like yours truly, you’re a huge fan of The Apprentice and are already mourning the end of another series, I urge you to grab a copy of Unscripted and a cuppa, ready to relive a decade’s worth of cock-ups, gaffes and blunders. Here are my top picks from this quarter, in no particular order . . .
Since the last instalment in this series, I’ve lapsed a little on the reading front as life inevitably got in the way. I moved back to Chester, then down to London and finally up to Cambridge, all within the space of a couple of months. It was beginning to feel a little like a live version of Location, Location, Location, to tell you the truth – but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve landed a job I enjoy, where I’m paid to do one of the things I love most: surround myself with books. Over the past few months, I’ve read books for all sorts of reasons: some simply because they were sat on the bookshelf; others because I really wanted to see what all the hype was about. Some I really loved; others fell flat. I’m sorry to say it, but The Girl on the Train just didn’t do it for me. (Maybe the film is better. Any opinions?) A Nurse in Time had potential, but fell short of the mark. Fortunately, after a few duds (the biggest by far being The Lie), things picked up and I read book after book that I absolutely loved.
With classes done and dusted for the year, I’ve been eagerly devouring a multitude of fictional worlds in glorious library-stamped paperback over the past three months. (Lots of bookworms seem to go gaga for hardback, but I much prefer paperback.) Having skipped out on New Year’s Resolutions, I set myself a handful of more manageable goals instead: losing the viennoiserie-related weight (check); awakening my dormant inner bookworm and reading a wider range of books (check); and finding a new job (in progress). I’ve been loosely following one of POPSUGAR’s Reading Challenges and have found myself reading all sorts of books I – in all probability – wouldn’t otherwise have read. I almost went doolally with the number of typos in Jules Wake’s Escape to the Riviera, and Neil Cross’ Captured is, in my opinion, better suited to the small screen, but on the whole these tomes have gone down a treat.
When I was younger, I would spend hours absorbed in a good (or, occasionally, bad) book. For as many summers as I can remember, I would plough through books at a rate of knots to complete the local library’s Summer Reading Challenge; I still remember the elated feeling when I finished first one summer. And then, somewhere between Holes and Lord of the Flies, books became a means to an end: passing exams. Along came university, with its mile-long bibliographies and modules with a mélange of interesting and not-so-interesting set texts. (Sorry Boris Vian.) In the holidays, I dipped in and out of my well-thumbed paperbacks; a welcome respite from inventing dozens of meanings for a sentence that, in all probability, only held one for the author. I spent much of last term trying to find my feet and make friends (little headway made on the latter); this term, when I’m not dashing across campus from one class to another, I’m usually scouring the library shelves for another promising read (or reading said promising read in the staffroom). As such, I’ve decided to start a quarterly feature celebrating my favourite reads.