I have read nine hundred books. Yes, I have. Cover to cover.
I have them in my bookcases, on my mantelpiece, my shelves, my dining table, in piles beside my tv, inside my wardrobe, under my bed.
I can recall where I bought each one, what I paid for it if it was raining outside or not that day.
I can recall what happened on page fifteen of any of them. Or page sixty-five, four hundred and seven.
I own each and every one. Of course. Not for me a trip to the local library. No siree.
I have completed each of them and not once cracked a spine. I use bookmarks, I would not dream of folding a page to mark my place.
A few are hardback, but most are paperback, alas. The cost you understand?
There’s little left over for food each week.
I do not have any friends (even Facebook ones), any followers on Twitter, anyone to say good morning to, to send me a Christmas card.
I really don’t have time for that sort of thing.
I have only read nine hundred books and there are so many, many more to read.