I have always been a reader, staying up past bedtime to finish just one more chapter by the glow of the street lamp outside my window. The first foray into the grown-up’s library with a firmly held letter from my teacher detailing my advanced reading age. “Georgina eats books for breakfast”, “you couldn’t live without books”, both true, they are my passion, my lifeblood. I have more than I care to admit, i could open my own lending library (I tried as a child but my teddies never paid the fines), and for every book on my shelf is a bundle of memories. The rainy tube carriage window I was glancing out of when I first cracked open Jane Eyre, the mind blowing moment I first put my little grey cells to the test against the might of Agatha Christie (mystery of the blue train), the moment I threw Wuthering Heights across the lawn from a hammock in frustration. With those memories comes love, periods of my life that mean the most to me are intrinsically linked to those books. The tears and cracks that they bear show just how many times they were picked up and read. How many times you’ve escaped into those pages to Neverwhere, Middle earth or Narnia. No matter how hard you try to keep them pristine, a book spine will always show its wear with repeated readings, and so with a desire to immortalise that love with pen, ink, and watercolour, that, dear reader, is where our story begins.