I don’t mean to boast, but I’m pretty good at spending all my money on books I’ll never read. I don’t think I’m alone here, but over the years I’ve almost perfected the routine of wetting my pants over a new author, getting a solid three chapters into their work, getting distracted by the internet, realising I have no money, wetting my pants over a new author, and on and on and on. My ‘active’ reading pile reflects this, getting taller and taller and dustier and more water-stained, like the worst game of Jenga ever.

Moving house recently, it was a little like opening a trap-door and finding the dozens of blind, malnourished puppies I keep adopting but then forgetting to play with. What’re you guys still doing here? I thought, sifting through them. The last time I moved I was stubborn and hopeful and hugely overestimating of my ability to sit still for fifteen minutes. A little older, I knew that it was time to put them in a sack and throw them into the river, or abandon them in a forest for the wolves to eat.