When my parents decided it was time to teach me how it read, I hated it. I hated it as much as I could and ran away from it as soon as teaching “hour” was over. What I loved was dogs. Dogs and everything related to them. We had quite few stray dogs around and I could not be happier than when I spent my time with them. Do not be afraid. They never came close to small kids unless kids came to them themselves. Moreover, there was no drunk or drag addicts noted near the playgrounds. Hating even the smell of these substances up to 8 dogs could keep away anyone in not a proper condition. If a man waned to come home after a party, he’d better be sober or at least behave!

However, no matter how much I pleaded, I was not allowed to have my own dog. Instead, my parents once brought mea book about a dog from the library which I consistently ignored for several weeks until one day when my whole life changes. I have opened it and got lost in it. I felt the same happiness from reading a book as I would have probably gotten from having a real dog. After that I have read all books about dogs and their training in my local library. Then I read everything I could find about all other animals. I was particularly interested in lions and tigers.

Several year later, when my life was great but somewhat boring, I found myself in love with detective stories. My love for solving puzzles mixed with attraction for adventures made them a perfect type of stories for me. Later on Harry Potter has joined their row which is kind of a detective story if you think about it and which is still my greatest love from all the books I have ever read.

When I was fifteen and boys somehow became interesting I had a short flink to romantic stories where brave, smart with always perfect body knights conquered beautiful virgins who for whatever reasons never had enough brain to recognise right away how awesome those knights were. But this did not last for long and I returned to mostly detective stories and psychology.

No matter which stage of reading love I was in, I have never liked when the pace of the plot was too slow. I have alway preferred “meat” so to say, all the rest I saw as a waste of time.

My latest book am reading are Cuckoo’s Calling and The Silkworm by J.K. Rawling (she wrote them under another pseudonym). While being wonderful representatives of detective genre, these books contained lots of very detailed description. It would have terrible annoyed me in the past but now this brings me immense pleasure. I cannot understand why! Maybe I am curious about other people and their lives in details? Or what? This is very unusual for me. Instead of watching TV before sleeping, I cuddle up in my cozy bed (got new madras šŸ˜‰ ) and immerse in a book till can no longer keep my eyes open.

Have you ever experienced such kind of shift in your reading tastes? What was the reason behind them?

 

P.S.: I have completely had no time to continue my gran canaria’s chronicles but I have so many nice photos still left unshared. Shall I continue?

 

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