This Means War

I had one of those rows at home today, about the sheer volume of reading material that I bring into the house.

This irks me. They don’t give out when I’m handing over my Steinbecks to my younger brother for school, or keeping my dad supplied with the only genre he will read; crime fiction. My mother has literally not bought a book since I got a part time job and started buying my own books, so it suits her sometimes to have novels everywhere. In fact it suits her most of the time, except when she’s premenstrual and pissy. Like today.

Today, however, she was in one of her moods and it was decided (well, she decided) that some of the books had to go.

The college pile was non-negotiable, so I was able to hang on to lots of my favourites that way (Penguin Classics are easy to pass off as college books when English Lit is part of your degree). Travel literature took a serious hit. Even some of the Bill Brysons had to go, but they’re not too difficult to replace thank god. The whole Twilight saga went (I wasn’t too sorry about those to be honest) and there was near bloodshed over my Eva Ibbotsons. Anybody who knows the lengths I went to for my copy of The Morning Gift would never even dream of making me part with it. I saved them all, though, even if they’re all hidden under the bed.

It was the Harry Potters, however, that caused the most consternation. I’ve been reading them since the tender age of seven, before they were a big deal. I remember reading the first one in the playground at school and everyone being like ‘Harry who?’, but then wanting to borrow them six months later after the third one got loads of press coverage and all my friends started calling me Hermione. My current Harrys are actually a replacement set; we lost the covers from the original Philosopher and Chamber, because they were passed around my entire extended family, and the wear and tear made them fall off. Boo.

She scoffed at my Irish language edition of Philosophers Stone too, which made me seethe with temper. It isn’t for nothing that I’m the only member of my household who can hold a proper conversation in Irish. And again, I went to great lengths to get the book which wasn’t easy or cheap to come by.

My mother even suggested that maybe I am too old for some of my books. Well, really! They teach Harry Potter in university these days!

Now I can’t sleep properly, because there are books hidden in my bed. Literally under the covers with me. Not good.

These are the lengths I have gone to, to save my copy of Jessica’s Guide to Dating on the Dark Side. Worth it though.