I think it’s safe to assume that each and every one of us has been touched by Domestic Violence in one form or another, whether we realise it or not. Even if the experience happens to be “the sister’s boyfriend’s best-friend’s wife’s sister”. At some point, you come face to face with it. As a child, I remember being shielded from people my parents knew who were involved with it, as a teenager, I saw it among my friends, and as an adult I experienced it myself. I may be unfortunate in the frequency with which I came
I start my days with checking in on Facebook. This is probably not very wise since Facebook is the epitome of a black hole for time. Nevertheless, I started out this Monday morning with a scan of my news feed and spotted the post which said that Banned Books Week started on Sunday the 22nd. That’s this week!
It seems a little sad that I have never heard of this awareness campaign before this year. It seems as if it ought to be something every reader (and writer) should be aware of. The practice of banning books is
When you think of reading, you think of a solitary activity, don’t you? I do. Reading has always been a solo venture for me. Of course, in the beginning, I had to have help with it – my mother would read to me, or help me read for myself by pointing out errors in pronunciation or helping me with context by either explaining words that I didn’t understand, or later on, pointing me towards the massive Concise Oxford that sat on the bookshelf. Still, none of that was particularly social. It was more a matter of supervised, or