Okay, I have a confession to make. When it was first suggested to me that I should read Terry Pratchett I scoffed. Yes, scoffed. I pooh-poohed the idea.

I really got that wrong.

So, in case you hadn’t guessed, this is my next life-changing reading moment. It happened when I was 16, and as dramatic and angsty as one of the many Smiths songs I listened to over and over again (sorry about that Mum and Dad). And I met my first boyfriend (I still really don’t like that word) and it was he who suggested I should read Pterry.

Now you have to remember at this stage I was convinced fantasy was not for me. I had only managed to read The Hobbit after a serious crackdown on myself, I’d already attempted Lord of the Rings twice and failed both times to get past Bombawhatshisface. I’d borrowed a few David Eddings from the library but never gotten through them. He bought me Truckers. What a nice boy. It was great. I borrowed Guards, Guards from the library. It was better. I giggled out loud at many points. He then lent me a couple of the early Discworld books.

And this is where my next terrible confession happens.

I never gave them back. In my defence it got (as mentioned) dramatically angsty and we didn’t see each other anymore. At least I still have them, right?

So that was the beginning of my love affair with Pterry which has continued unabated ever since. It was a great time – there were so many Discworld books for me to read. Ah, lovely. I’ve read most of them at least twice, several of them around five times and possibly more. I don’t really bother keeping track. I’m just happy I have them all when I need them.