One of the many aspects i love about books, about owning books, about breaking my bank account by constantly buying books is that they're always there.
Millions upon millions of stories just waiting to have their papery spines creaked open and their secrets bestrewn like confetti.
How could anything be more comforting?
It's especially comforting when something else you're reading/watching/listening to causes you to reach onto your shelves and pull down a long forgotten tale.
A gift in this case, from my Dad.
Gris Grimly's version of the infamous legend of the Headless Horseman has been sat above my bed for countless years and i've often touched its spine, as i seem to do when singling out my next literary victim, but cast it aside for something else, usually something gorier.
Until i finally got around to watching the much maligned tv adaptation, that is.
A much maligned adaptation that i'm head over heels for - pardon the pun.
And this would not have happened if my room was not full to the rafters with books.
Books i won't read for years.
Books i may never read.
Books i may read tomorrow.
What matters to me, and perhaps to me alone, is that they're there and they're waiting for me.
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