I’ve always been a fan of English, me. It’s my kind of subject. It requires me to use my brain in a particular way, a way with which I am familiar and comfortable. I love books. I love writing. I love words.
Numbers – personally? Not a fan. I’ve never had a scientific brain nor do I believe I ever will have. My Maths skills are and always have been appalling, despite receiving extra tuition when I was at school. And it was only with the help of my best friend that I even scraped through GCSE Science.
I’ve loved books for as long as I can remember. As a child, my parents and I would read Shirley Hughes, Janet and Allan Ahlberg, Lyn Wendon, Michael Rosen and Val Biro, the latter of which visited my primary school when I was six and kindly signed my ‘Gumdrop Goes To School’ book for me.
I’ve never written a film review before, which you will probably realise once you’ve finished reading today’s post. The closest I’ve got to writing anything remotely similar is a book report at school – the classic summer holiday homework which is forced upon primary school children and met with the same overwhelming hatred as eating vegetables and enduring Sunday night bath time before school the next day.