My mother had a secret tactic to get me to enjoy reading, which she admits was never an intentional tactic, just luck.

At about the age of 6 or 7, while I was tucked up in bed Mum would read me books such as Little House On The Prairie or The Famous Five. Yet it always seemed that when the most exciting thing was about to happen in the story, Mum would get up to go to the bathroom, to make a cup of tea or to look after my baby brother.

“Now make sure you don’t read ahead, it’s getting very exciting and I don’t want to miss out on what happens.”

Of course, it would seem like Mum was away from my room for hours and hours. And the book would just be sitting on the bedside table, taunting me.

“Read me Pippa, you know you want to!”

So I’d pick the book up and read ahead and would guiltily return it to the table when I heard Mum’s footsteps in the passageway. After I’d admitted to sneaking a read a couple of times, I was allowed to read to myself before bed.

Soon I was picking up books to find out what happened next at all times of the day, not just bedtime. Reading become such a guilty pleasure that I would frequently wear out the torch batteries as I hid the book under my covers after lights out!