We take our joy where we find it. Lately my joy has been something that I always loved but had forgotten. It is reading. Being read to. I love to be read to. This came to me at one of my regular ladies where an audiobook cassette lay by a CNIB machine.
At home, I decided to try a search for AudioBooks on my favoured file-sharing program and was bowled over by the results. I must admit to adding about 25 names into my filters list. Harry Potter and Zig Ziglar and so on. I also added the phrase "self help" and the words "hypnosis" and suchlike betterments. It is not self-definement I require. It is the comfort of a voice reading me a story. Now, Neil Gaiman's stories don't seem to come up--how annoying-- but Agatha Christie's certainly do. I spent my adolescence reading every Agatha Christie book I could get my hands on. I think I own most of them still in leather bound volumes in my library. So downloads-a-go-g0 it has been on my personal machine.
All this last time of hospitals and tests and Doctors, I have spent my evenings being read to. Poirot and Miss Marple and the usual cast of upperclass twits and gossipy villagers. Strangely enjoying.
