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MANY YEARS AGO, I lived in London. Then, as now, I accumulated books. Lots of them. They sat in my bedroom, in untidy, ever-mobile pyramids, frequently, and noisily, sliding floorwards. I built more pyramids than the Pharoahs, but unlike theirs, my structures only lasted days. It began to drive me mad.

I was sharing a flat at the time with the sister of the person who owned the place. It was agreed between them that the flat could do with more bookshelves, and I was tasked with the job of finding the shelves, with the understanding that they would be for my use as long as I lived there.