Magical reading

Yesterday I went to a discount bookshop to buy some paintbrushes - they have a cheap art department as well - and my eye lit on a book about angels: a recent compilation of people's anecdotes from around the world. In each one, a helping angel appeared. The stories had the ring of truth. Sometimes the angel appeared in a dream. In others, he or she would appear at the scene of an accident to comfort or save life, then disappear without trace after being witnessed by none but the narrator. It wasn't always the narrator who saw the angel: in fact the stories varied widely. I glimpsed at it and then went upstairs for the paintbrushes. I was drawn to the book once more as if by magnetism and read some more. So I bought it: Walking with Angels by Carmel Reilly. I have read other angel books. I'm not keen on those which stray beyond the writer's personal experience. Some of them are not personal at all: there are many unscrupulous writers who are merely in it for the money.

The other thing I'm reading is the first Harry Potter book. I've never opened one before, though my children - now grown up - have been reading them since they first came out. I have to admit that the world is right. The writing is of the highest quality and I'm hooked. Progress is slow because I read aloud to my beloved: not that she couldn't read it herself, but it's one of the things we do, and that way we really savour books.