22 February 2016
When my children were small, we spent many happy hours in our local library in Cowley, Oxford. As soon as we crossed the threshold, they scrambled out of the pushchair, kicked off their wellies and dived into the picture book boxes.
Those cosy days of rain trickling down the windowpanes, coats drying on the radiator and tiny hands resting gently on my knee were both precious and illuminating. At the time, I thought I was just keeping them busy, but now I look back on it, it was more than that. By taking them to the library I had unwittingly enrolled in a masterclass in children's literature.