Reading is easy when it’s just me and the book. I look at Janet. I look at John. I look at them on the beach, or by the river, or playing with their dog. I look at a picture and then I look at the big words in the white space underneath. And then, while I’m quiet and thinking, the words come floating up off the page and into my head and they tell me the story. And then I turn the page and more words come floating up. It’s quiet and happy for me and Janet and John.It’s harder when I have to read to Sister André at her big desk. The book is between us. I stand so close that I’m pressed against the big black folds of her habit. I can see the soft, downy hairs on her plump hands as she turns the pages. The words aren’t always light and floaty when I’m with Sister. But she is kind and she smiles. She helps me when the words get stuck to the page. If she is pleased I get a sweet from the small green tin she keeps deep in her pocket. Her rosary beads rattle as she reaches for it.
But today Sister wants me to read to the class. I am going to have to stand up with my book. And while Janet and John play and laugh and splash, the big words in their white spaces will curl and twist into hard spiky shapes. I’ll stare and stare but instead of flying gently up towards me, the words will hook themselves into the paper. And there they will stay. And while I’m staring my tongue will go tight and dry and there will be heavy weights hanging from the corners of my mouth, pulling them down and down as my eyes fill with hot, splashy tears
And that’s why I hid among the trees at the edge of the playground. The big hand-bell clanged and the other children lined up. Nobody missed me. And when it was quiet again, I walked through the empty playground, past the little house where the lavatories are and down the tree-lined path to the street. And I walked home. Along the top lane, past the allotments and down the hill by the railway line. I felt free and happy and safe as I passed the park gates and saw the swings hanging still in the morning sunshine. Then I was on the long uphill street that led to the edge of the town and the winding lane where my house and garden was – the last bit of the town and the first bit of the country. Nearly home.
And then a blue car that I recognised was coming down the hill towards me. It was our car and my mother was driving it and she had seen me. The car stopped. I climbed in and we drove off. But we didn’t go to the shops and we didn’t turn around and go home. Instead, we sped past the park, up the hill by the railway line, past the allotments and straight back to school. Within minutes we were outside the classroom door and my mother was talking quietly to Sister André.
‘Of course, I told Miss Briggs immediately,’ Sister said.
Miss Briggs? Miss Briggs was the headmistress. She taught the big children. She didn’t look a bit like plump, comfortable Sister André. She was tall and thin and wore a brown scratchy tweed suit. She had round, wire-rimmed glasses. She carried a stick. When Sister André took you anywhere, she held your hand. If Miss Briggs needed to, she held you by the wrist.
And while my mother and Sister André murmured, Miss Briggs appeared at the far end of the corridor: almost as thin as the stick in her hand. Her heels click-clicked on the polished floor. Miss Briggs gripped my wrist and led me down the long, long corridor.
I can’t remember much of what happened next. I think she asked a question that began with ‘Why?’ and I think she asked me to promise that I’d never run away again. I promised. She smiled. And I noticed that Miss Briggs was much younger than my mother.
And then I was back in the classroom. Janet and John were still playing on the long tree branch by the stream. The dog was still splashing in the shallow water. The words floated up towards me as I sat quietly reading to myself, sitting at my desk at the back of the class.
The Gnome sends greetings to all his blog chums and wishes them a fab 2008.
Retro, sparkly and pointy.... 
Mr G and the HB have relished - with immense gratitude - this year's bumper harvest of Christmas gifts....
Mr Gnome greets all his blog chums with a cheery, festive 'Hurrah!'
Few are more aware than Mr G of the healing, health-promoting power of the humble sequin....
The ever-tranquil Mr Gnome is finding his sang-froid tested as the HB starts his pre-Christmas flap.
Inspired by his South American guinea pig chum, Mr Gnome is trying hard to give a fair-trade focus to some of his Christmas shopping.
Tiny problem. He likes them so much that he's reluctant to give them away.
Mr G's afternoon visit to Birmingham included a pause to relish the tranquillity and beauty of St Martin's Church, at the heart of the Bullring shopping district.
Roughly eighty singers raised the roof of Leamington Spa's parish church last night performing celebratory songs from around the world - to a house-full audience.
Mr G recently heard the following story concerning the late Queen Mother.
Ever persistent, kindly-but-firm Mr Gnome has at last succeeded in motivating the HB to crack on with Christmas preparations.
Some like to be soothed into the start of a new working week. But not Mr Gnome. He relishes some cerebral stimulation.
Always eager to keep up with kulcha and literature, Mr Gnome made a point of tuning in to tonight's Radio 4 interview with Nobel prize-winning novelist Doris Lessing.
Mr Gnome usually starts the day with a laugh thanks to the Daily Telegraph's peerless cartoonist Matt.
With a few exceptions, Mr G's attitude to television programmes is one of languid indifference.
Mr Gnome rattled along the rails today to visit the historic port city of Bristol.
The sounds, the smells, the tastes and the delicious dazzlement of Birmingham's German Christmas market have lifted Mr Gnome to a pinnacle of pre-Christmas pleasure.
Usually eager to 'accentuate the positive', Mr Gnome is uncharacteristically disappointed by a new piece of public art.
Mr Gnome strikes a Tolkienesque pose beside one of his HB's most treasured volumes.
Mr Gnome isn't at all sniffy about 'brand name' coffee shops. He likes them.
Constant communicator Mr Gnome is a massive fan of the cult phenomenon known as Moo Cards.
Micro-celeb Mr Gnome tonight helped bring twinkling illumination to a Midlands street by switching on the famed Banbury family Christmas lights.
Another Saturday in London, this time with a distinct hint of winter. The river and skyline always makes provincial me pause with something like wonder.
Mr G's boundless self-confidence makes him proof against bouts of dreary introspection. That said, he occasionally pauses to ponder....
Mr G confesses to a moment of wistful reflection as he browses through his HB's old family photos.
On drab winter days Mr G cheers himself up with memories of his summer ramblings, which this year included an August outing to the Glyndebourne opera festival.
Mr G's sense of himself as a mini-celebrity was boosted today by an invitation to switch on the Christmas lights at a prestigious midlands address....
One is a revered leader, deep of voice and noble of bearing. The other is the Archbishop of Canterbury....
Mr Gnome likes to think he has an 'eye' for talent. So when a young artist sends him samples of his or her work, Mr G becomes very excited.
Mr Gnome likes few things more than an evening at the theatre. His most recent outing has been to see Alan Bennett's intriguing play The Old Country.
Mr G recently visited the Shibboleth 'installation' at the Tate Modern gallery in London.
Mr Gnome urges Midlands-based music lovers to head for the Songlines Winter Concert on Saturday 15 December.
Outgoing Mr Gnome relishes encounters with HBs (Human Beings) of all types and backgrounds - even Anglican clergypersons.
Mr G's resident HB (Human Being) lives in a trendy block of flats with a communal area for garbage dumping.
While Mr G's academic achievements are a closely guarded secret, his love for the ancient city of Oxford is not.
Having relished the Betjeman extravaganza, Mr G nipped to one of his favourite London eateries: Café 2 at the Tate Modern art gallery.
On a flying visit to the capital today Mr G took a detour to view the renewed, restored St Pancras station - and to view the newly unveiled statue of Sir John Betjeman, the work of Martin Jennings.
Quiet days are the most dangerous. Days that are in between more important days. 
