On Saturdays nights you’re at me, instead of staying at home (where I’m likely to watch Pitch Perfect, or read He’s Just Not That Into You again), we head out for dinner followed by a peruse in the bookshop.
It’s one of my favourite times of the week – there are no distractions nor pressure, and it’s quality time where we eat (you = sushi, me = salad), chat and then read. You’re at the stage where there are minimal meltdowns, and you’re starting to understand a bit better that you can’t get the Lego, the Lego book, the toy, the ice cream and the macaroon from Tasha’s that I usually end up eating.
As soon as you hit the bookstore, you run off to the kids’ section, grab what interests you, and sit down and read. It’s a pleasure to see, and it gives me a chance to do my own browsing. I adore bookshops and whenever I’m overseas, I spend ages in whatever bookshop I can find. Many years ago, your dad and I went to The World’s Biggest Bookstore in downtown Toronto, where we hung out for almost the whole day.
When I was your age, I dimly remember Sunday afternoon family trips to Hillbrow and hours spent in the bookshop, record store and Milky Lane. There is something that relaxes, inspires and comforts me about bookshops, and to spend some time with you reading in them is a privilege.
Thanks for the Saturday-night fun, Max.
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