I could grow to hate books. A strange thing for a writer to say but hear me out.
Most of the time I love them. Of course I do. It’s only during the weekly house clean that love turns to hate. Books are heavy, especially the gargantuan tomes bought by my husband. Constantly lifting them off the floor, so that I can run a hoover over the carpet, is a pain. Literally.
There are numerous stacks of his books dotted around our house, like miniature stone cairns. They form part of his ever amassing collection of non fiction - weirdness, trivia, obscure history and psychobabble - that has outgrown our shelves.
All are hard back which adds to their combined weight … and my ill temper. Ever heard of Kindle, I ask him. He has, but he says you can’t crack open a Kindle and smell the fresh scent of print. I wobble (briefly) because I know exactly what he means.
Admittedly we both get through a lot of books. Yet I don’t feel compelled to hang on to each and every one. My husband, on the other hand, finds it difficult to let go. I’ve tried introducing a one in, one out rule. It hasn’t worked.
Why don’t you pick the ones you really want to keep and give the rest to charity, I suggest. You’d think, by the horrified look on his face, I’m asking him to choose which pet Labrador to save and which to shoot.
There is one positive I can take from all of this. The average hard back book weighs at least one pound. Fourteen hard back books equate to a stone in weight. So my weekly lifting and moving is as good as a dumbbell workout.