My local library is a tiny outpost in the inner-north of Melbourne. It is a utilitarian and slightly shabby 1980s building with weeds growing up outside of it, perched on the slope of a noisy intersection between a pharmacy and a disappointing florist. The opening hours are brief. Inside it is dark and cramped. It has modest stock on the shelves: new release fiction, battered paperbacks, cookbooks, DIY, and children’s picture books.

Despite its lack of promise, the library is a portal to a world of reading because I can request books from the wider network of which it is a part. I order piles of books online from home and their arrival is staccato as they are returned one-by-one to the library by other borrowers. An email pings my iPhone when they are ready to collect, ready to add to my ever-towering reading pile.