Recently I was sorting through my bookcases, trying to make space for more books. Because obviously, even though they’re full to overflowing, I seriously believe that I can fit more in. Somehow. It was a much lengthier process than I’d expected. A little like going through a photo album. Each book I picked up, I was not only remembering the story between the covers, but when I’d read it. And somehow or other, instead of making more space, I ended up randomly picking out books to see what memories were attached to each one.

There was a book that brought back memories of having a sleepover at a friend’s house when I was a teenager. She’d long since fallen asleep, but I was still wide awake. Luckily I had my torch and a book with me. Well, actually, I’d packed two books, but only managed to get one read before I was tired enough to sleep.

Another book reminded me of lying in bed in North Queensland while a storm raged outside, the windows shuddering from the gusts of wind. It was late at night in the middle of summer and the glass of the window was cold to touch. Nothing could be seen outside. It was completely black. I read for hours, finally falling asleep to the sound of the storm as it continued to rage.

There were books I’ve read on buses, on trains, at the beach, sitting on the roof of a house late at night under the stars. On picnic blankets at the beach, in trees with wide spread branches, in hammocks and numerous ones in bed, late at night when everyone else was asleep. Books are obviously made for reading in any location, in any situation, and for me, they also have as many memories attached to them as pictures in a photo album.