EVERY BOOK HAS ITS PLACE
A woman and twelve(ish) year old boy were eating lunch in a greasy-spoon cafe. He was telling her about his summer and, in between mouthfuls of chips and beans, reeling off all the sports he had played.
“Do you read, Tom?” she asked.
He screwed up his face.
“Not really,” he said. “If I’ve got some free time, I’d rather do sports.”
“Is there any time when you’d read?” she pressed.
“Only really on holiday,” he replied. “By the pool in the south of France or Italy. Then I’ll read.”
He shovelled in more chips and beans.