I'm no librarian

Love is... books. Wait that's not fair, Love is... friends. No, I change my mind, Love is friends who give you books. Aha.

Do you ever get that feeling sometimes where you really want to read a certain something? Like you go and take down a Harry Potter book because, although you've read it four or five times already, you're just in the mood for it? Well I had that itching for Hemingway a few weeks ago and was paying frequent visits to the second hand book shop in town in the hope that they would get something in, but there wasn't even a sniff of anything around. Then one morning, after finishing a book I decided I was fed up waiting and asked my sister for her student card so I could go to the library. Ten minutes later the post came and what had arrived in a big white Amazonian envelope? A late birthday present ordered for me by a friend! Yes! Fiesta!

Love is... Nuala.

Still on the topic of books- when I was small I had one about Santa and his little helper. This helper had my name as my Godmother got the book printed for me for Christmas, oh but it was the most exciting thing to be in a story! I have recently received another book with my name in it, but this time I'm a horse. And the plot is a little bit um, different shall we say?

The opening page goes like this:
The mare was gleaming gold and dynamic movement and sliding, shining muscles. She was flowing mane and flying tail, racing against the wind. She was vividly aware of warm sun above, and cool grass beneath her hooves; of the background murmur of running water; of birdcall, an angry shouting at a questioning dogstoat, sleeking through the shivering stems. She was conscious of an intense joy in living, of power, and of pride that arched her slender neck. Her wide wise eyes observed the world around her, saw the sky above her, and her constantly flickering sensitive ears moved as a sudden gust groaned among the branches.
The man watching her wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in the world. He was driven by a physical need, a wild desire for possession. He wanted the feel of her warm hide against his hands, the thrill of watching her endlessly, galloping over springy turf. He wanted to caress her slim neck, to speak to her and have her conscious of him, turning her head so that her dark eyes could look at him with affection.
His mouth was dry with excitement. There never had been such a mare. She was bred from the desert wind and the moonlit night and the shimmering stars, bred from the raging need of man to find perfection. And she was perfect. Nothing flawed her. He craved her as a woman coveted a brilliant gem, as a child hungered for the glowing moon.

Yes... well... either way, Love is... Elspeth.