Life Saving Library
Running away was a skill when I was twelve and thirteen. The halls of learning with gowned Masters and wind-whipping canes that stung skin and challenged their victims not to cry out - and none of us ever did - was a place of fear. Not from the physical punishments, they were easy to endure, but the fear of ignorance - of not knowing, of not being bright enough, of being always behind the curriculum because I had attended so many schools. And, of course, having the attention span of a fruit fly didn't help. Running away was the only answer and there were two places that nurtured me without fear of reprisal, ridicule and dumb, gut-churning angst: the library and the cinema. Front row, cheap seats where neck strain was a badge of courage, and the Liverpool Central Library where whiplash threatened from vast semi-circular bookshelves that curved left and right. The magic of the library, that wonderful, glorious place of calm and silence, where ranks of etched spines and promise, beckoned to be lifted down - as many as you could carry. It was a world of reading - of anything I chose - of any subject, without restriction or censure. What better life could there have been for a wayward boy? The best interactive app ever invented - a book. That library was an escape pod that jettisoned me away from the droning, learn-by-rote world of suffocating formality. The library breathed life into me. Now, some of these libraries are closing and the freedom to be caught unaware by unexpected words that entice and enthrall is being lost. In the UK, the top ten books borrowed were by children's authors. Perhaps it's time for a Twitter revolution of our own. Keeping libraries open is a small price to pay for giving life to a community - and any wayward child who might be on the run.
