Lindsay Woods: I have always consumed books at a furious pace

Several days ago, the long-awaited sequel to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale was released.

It has been 34 years since the first instalment was published so, to say that The Testaments was very much anticipated is a considerable understatement.

I was ridiculously on time that morning dropping my kids to school. As I hurried them to the gate one piped up, “Why are we rushing? We’re actually on time… for once.”

“It’s Atwood day,” I hissed, “Now… run!”

I hightailed it to the town nearest us, parked and sprinted in the direction of the bookshop. Most shops have a 9:30am opening there, which I find comforting and quaint in equal measure.

At 9:29am, I was perched on the window ledge with a backdrop of a neat row of inky blue books bearing the image of a white bonnet clad silhouette hovering above my head.

The doors opened and I awkwardly stood in the centre of the store before turning in the direction of the window display and then saying to the owner, “I don’t want to ruin the display by taking one”.

Smiling, she reached down behind the counter and pulled an entire stack of the book from beneath. I left the shop with my purchase at the same pace which I had arrived; brisk.

On arrival home, I promptly set about devouring same and what menial tasks I attempted to accomplish throughout the day were done so one handed as I turned page after page.

I had three blisters on the hand which held the book, due to an enthusiastic clipping of very established hedges with a blunt shears the day prior.

Sadist that I am, it added to the enjoyment of the book as the weight of it bumped off the welts on my thumb and palm.

My husband, on returning from work, queried as to why I was not ready. We had tickets for a marvellous production, ‘Loch na hEala’, that evening, presented by the festival Sounds from a Safe Harbour.

It was all the good kinds of strange, mesmerising, poignant and wildly incredible. Believe the reviews, it is remarkable.

With barely 15 minutes to spare, I finished the book with a contented sigh, threw on some shoes and ran out the door.

In the car, Himself just shook his head at the immediacy at which I had needed to read the book in question.

Why you always like this? With the books I mean?

“I suppose I was. I suppose I am.”

“Would you not want to savour it though? Take your time with it?”

“Maybe with others. Not with this one.”

But I have always been this way with books. The furious pace at which I consume them. It started very early on and has not abated as I have gotten older.

When in primary school, we had a mobile library visit every other week.

A sizeable yellow bus, bearing a not too dissimilar appearance to the mode of transport used to convey pupils to school in the American teen shows we all favoured, would roll up alongside the low stone wall which ran along the entrance.

Except our yellow bus contained books. Initially, I believe we were allowed to borrow three books, which may have increased to five over time.

The children’s section was towards the back and it was here I worked through the various series such as, ‘Sweet Valley High’, ‘The Babysitters Club’, ‘The Children of the Famine’ and the entire catalogue of Roald Dahl, Judy Blume and Enid Blyton.

Enid Blyton

However, it was not enough. I had not, and still do not to a great extent, have any discerning tastes in what I read.

I read the backs of cereal boxes, leaflets and tabloid newspapers with the same gusto as my selections from the library.

My parents even banned me from checking out any further books for a two-week period due to exhausting myself, and my eyesight, in my unrelenting pursuit of words.

Therefore, it was not long before my eye began to stray from the children’s section. I was 11 years old when I placed a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale, hidden beneath two other selections, on the counter.

I still remember standing there, waiting to be denied it. The librarian just looked at me, while I no doubt sweated and fidgeted, and stamped the book with my return date.

I read it that night by torchlight. While I am under no illusion that, at that age, the vast portion of it went truly over my head, I knew it meant something.

I did not know how prophetic many of its themes would come to be.

Hence, why I consumed the newest instalment with the same urgency as its sister; for fear my library card may once more be confiscated.

@thegirlinthepaper