I spoke to my parents,this morning, as I do every Sunday. Dad had a great birthday: he and mum went to Wales, and by the sound of it had a great time. Over the webcam they showed me a card my brother had sent. On its front was a picture of dad reading to his grandson. It was only a picture book – the kind intended for one year olds – but it also marked a beginning. It was through my fathers deep voice that I gained my love of literature. I loved when dad read to me. Through that voice I fell in love with characters and worlds, as well as the very music of language. As well as reminding me of how much I owe to my father, that picture made me wonder whether, seven or eight years hence, Oliver will hear that voice utter the sentence which really began my love of literature, words I have adored since I first heard them: ‘In a hole, under the ground, there lived a hobbit’. I will forever associate the opening sentence of the Hobbit with the voice of my father, a man whose kindness, wisdom and unconditional love I owe so much to. Through those words, though simply being read to as I grew up, entire worlds were opened up to me. I hope those words, that voice, will soon hold for Oliver the magic they still hold for me,