Reading for Pleasure

I've only spent the past ten years banging on about the joy of reading - how you're never lonely when you've a book, how reading broadens the mind, that reading for pleasure is fun. Nobody listened, nobody cared.
"We'd far rather watch TV," they said, "Climb a tree, ride a bike, wreck the house..."
I persevered with their reading. Fifteen minutes every day whether they liked it or not. And I made them read stuff that was difficult for them - Just William, Laura Ingalls, Frances Hodgson Burnett.
"These books are classics," I told them, "I read them when I was your age."
They rolled their eyes and said, "Mummy, you grew up in the back of beyond. There was no TV. No DVDs. What else was there for you to do?"
I began to loose heart. Began to think I was an old fossil. That I was suffering from some sort of disillusion about children and reading and children's books...
Until this summer. When Maud (10) discovered Lemony Snickett, and Rex (9) became addicted to Percy Jackson. Now the shout is:
"Just another chapter Mummy! I can't wait to find out what happens next..."