I rashly committed to a post for the Bookworms’ Carnival this week then realised that I had nothing in the archives that would suit, and no idea what to blog about.
But I said I’d do it, so bear with me … this is going to get rambly …
I’m 37 years old and I still believe in fairy tales.
It sounds like a funny thing, but it’s the truth. I’m coming out: I believe in fairy tales; in magic, in make-believe.
I want to go down the rabbit-hole, to Hogwarts, to Middle Earth, to … Once Upon a Time. Which should be a place, really, shouldn't it? Where all the best stories are and where you could meet your favourite characters?
Anyway.
I’m a grown-up, playing in the big kids’ playground; I’m married, I have a son and I work fulltime. So I’m fairly well-grounded in the real world. But … a part of me still lives in that land of signs and wonder, that you find as a child when you open that book that takes you out of yourself for the very first time and you realise how big the world truly is.
It might be Narnia; it might be Hogwarts; it might even be here, but a ''here'' you had never thought of until now.
I hope that sense of wonder never leaves me. Because that means I’m really a grown-up. And I don’t think that’s a fun world to live in, fulltime.
