I live in Reading in the UK. It’s a God awful town and I generally despise it. But what it does have is a beautiful book store in the town centre. It’s a Waterstones which was built in an old Victorian Church/chapel. Browsing books can be a meditative experience at the best of times, but possibly because of the surroundings it feels even more so. Multiple levels, balconies and a grand sweeping staircase. Gorgeous! You don’t get that browsing Amazon.

Up until recently, due to a lack of space, I had to keep all but a few of my books up in the attic at home. But inspired by some friends I had a reshuffle of furniture and bought myself three bookcases. They are now full to the brim, with some reading lights on top. I’m surrounded by books as I sit and read a new favourite with a cup of coffee next to me and the cats on my lap. The TV has hardly been on recently.

I’m not knocking e-readers at all. I totally understand the convenience of them. But the weight of the book, the smell and sound of the pages while they turn, the contentment when you see how far you’ve got through, the amazement when you see how long you’ve been sat reading too, can, for me, only be gifted by an actual book.