It's a question I'm asked at least daily. Often by my mother, regularly by my lovely man. In curious tones, exasperated tones, confused, irritated, concerned, baffled tones.
I answer differently, according to the interrogator, my mood, and how many times I've been asked today.
Honestly though, I read because I can. I've always loved to read. My mum has a picture of me, sitting on her lap at six months, 'reading' the paper.
I was reading fairly fluently by four, having been taught out of exasperation by that redoubtable matriarch and was unstoppable by seven.
By twelve, I was unable to tell you if I'd eaten but I could describe in detail the world I was currently immersed in.
I've had to slow down somewhat at twenty one, as the demands of a nearly-2 year old are difficult to ignore when you're being clocked over the head with a glass bottle and the yell "Mum! milk!" shatters the delicate castle in the air.
Bean already 'stirs pots' at her little kitchen with a book in her other hand. She hands books to me with two hands, and turns pages by the corner. 'Book,' is said in reverential, awed tones. Start them early! Worked with me!
To be absolutely fair, she also throws books; never walks but runs; climbs everything and loves to 'help' daddy in his shed.
I read to expand my knowledge. A volume of Greek history is just as interesting as a Georgette Heyer, and probably twice as good for me. I read to dream of other times, other cultures, other wheres.
I read to challenge myself. I read to exercise my imagination.
And yes, I read so I don't have to do laundry. Doesn't everyone?
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