I have just started a medical course as of last year but reading is one of my most beloved hobbies and I grasp at every opportunity to immerse myself in a good book (busy underground stations are a great place to snatch a few minutes of reading and I have become quite adept at reading while standing emersed in a suffocating crowd and clinging for my life to a metal pole). In the words of Hugh Laurie and Stephan Fry (A Bit of Fry and Laurie):
L: So, to you, language is more than just a means of communication?
F: Oh, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is. Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl... language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from a old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.
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