I finish a book.

I have been reading a book, but now I have finished it. I get upset when I finish a book – there’s a grief there, at a world that took up swathes of your time, something you had elaborately constructed in your mind, simply coming to an abrupt The End.

I have been trying to read more books this year though. Up to now I have not been reading enough books, but my book buying levels have continued unabated, which has left me with rather the awkward problem of so many books that much of my desk and a swathe of my floor have been rendered rather unusable.

Since the beginning of the year I have made a concerted effort to read more books – unfortunately it has led to precisely the same problem with books but with magazines (I keep buying more! It’s an illness), but they don’t take up as much room. I’ve read 18 books so far this year, which is good. That’s very nearly a book a week – if I could get through 50 books this year that would be a faintly marvellous effort. But oh no, think of all of the books I’ll be finishing.