How do our children read? Do we really know? Well I know how I did. Aged 11 I adored Walter Scott novels and read them all. On my own of course, my school thought I should use the “junior library” (ugh): Enid Blyton, Noddy, and such like.
When I say “read”, well I don’t exactly mean that. Remember all those unending Scott descriptions? Who actually reads them (except school teachers – maybe)? Uplifting and beautifully written no doubt – but, face it, dead boring to a reader in her pre-teens. Or anyone.
So, of course I just – hm, missed them out. Easy. My younger brother would watch my eyes moving down the centre of a page then my fingers turning over. The same the next, then pausing a moment ... then on.
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