Writers are often asked what they’re reading: a question that always makes me squirm. After all, reading is personal and intimate, and literary folk can be so judgey. Do I really need to show you mine, even though you haven’t shown me yours?

There’s a temptation to dodge the whole question—in a creative way, of course. For example, I could skip over books altogether, reflecting instead on how I was recently engrossed by the old Coles shopping receipts I found in my elderly mother’s kitchen drawer. Seemingly prosaic, yet seeing that she paid $1.95 for a pack of Iced VoVos back in 2012 triggered a poignant reflection on the passage of time, my own childhood, and why Arnott’s never included a Madeleine knock-off in their family packs.