Keris Stainton‘s weekly column on married life…
One of the first things that attracted me to David was that he was a reader. He used to write and edit a Blackburn Rovers supporters club fanzine and he would feature novels that featured football (however obliquely). I loved that he was widely read, could talk about books and had read some of the same books as me.
My dad can name every book he’s read in his life – it’s not that he’s got a great memory, it’s that he’s read fewer than ten books. Seriously. My mum, like me, was a voracious reader and I could never understand how they got together, with such widely different reading habits. How can you love someone who doesn’t love books?
And then me and David got married. And I noticed that he didn’t read as much, or as widely, as he’d led me to believe. He read a lot of what I took to calling “screaming tree” books – horror books with horrific covers. He also reads incredibly slowly and sometimes I think he takes longer to read a book than the author took to write it.
And yet there I am, reading away avidly, at all times. (Well, not *all* times. I don’t read during, you know, intimate moments.)
Our reading very rarely overlaps these days. He doesn’t like Harry Potter. I don’t like crime novels. We both read the same book on holiday, but while I loved it, he threw it in the bin (the bin!) without finishing it.
But one of the images of marriage I always had in mind was of us sitting up in bed reading. It just always seemed such a cosy, intimate and reassuring thing to do.
Currently David is reading a book I recommended. Caprice Crane’s Stupid and Contagious. Despite it being chick lit, I was sure he’d like it due to numerous classic rock references and a certain sick sense of humour. A few times in the past week I’ve turned the light off to sleep and can still hear him chortling at Ms Crane’s debut novel. This makes me extremely happy.