I remember going straight from Enid Blyton at the end of my childhood, with maybe a little elapse of time before starting on Agatha Christie which I remember reading throughout my teens. I also remember being about 15 or so and moaning to my mother I was bored, she disappeared upstairs and brought down a tome, called "Gone with The Wind" with a "read this" so I did! and felt quite bereft when I finished it. I probably read Wuthering Heights around that time too.
Sometimes it’s just the small things that press the bruise isn’t it? 😢


