Is there a local branch of RA?

Ahem *stands up*

My name is Maureen and I am a bookaholic.

I have only just come to this realisation although the seeds go way way back. Addiction has been described as a compulsion which affects your everyday life: that describes my relationship with books perfectly.


You know how on Desert Island Discs the celebrity is asked to choose one book to take with them to their mythical island? One?? Panic is setting in even as I write this, with no threat of ever being put in that position – by the BBC or worse still, a plane crash. How could I possibly survive? My only chance is the existence somewhere of an anthology comprising the complete works of Shakespeare, Hardy, Wilde, Keats, Fry, Byron, Orwell, Kerouac, Self, Iain Sinclair.... the list goes on.


The best way to solve the problem, it occurs to me, is for my luxury item to be my Ipad, pre-loaded with all the above and just a few more books to keep me going. Would that be allowed under the rules I wonder? At the very least, it breaks the spirit of the programme.

So, at a pinch, I suppose I might just be able to cope by rereading The Book of Dave, Endymion, London Orbital, Dorian Gray…..

Like many addicts, I blame my parents. Dad especially. He was a connoisseur. He savoured books – wrapped them protectively in brown paper covers to protect the precious bindings, and handled them with the reverence of the wine buff. I have inherited his set of Arthur Mee’s ‘Children’s Encyclopaedias, a ten-volume work which I spent many happy childhood hours poring over. I wasn’t allowed to touch the books until I had washed my hands, and I still have the urge to do so before removing them from the shelf.

One of my earliest memories is standing in the village shop Dad kept, a copy of 'Bobbalink and Bunty' ( a story about an elf and a teddy bear - don't get me started...) propped on a chair in front of me, narrating the tale verbatim from the book for the delight and delectation of the elderly ladies of the village, who invariably marvelled to my Mum: 'Can she read??' I was three - and no, I couldn't: I had pestered for this story so often I could recite it by heart, turning the pages at the right time.

Mind you, another memory from around the same time is visiting my Uncle and rolling his cigarettes for him. Give me, aged four, a pack of tobacco and a few Rizlas and I was absorbed for hours... yet I've never been a smoker. Perhaps you choose your influences early.

By the time I was about ten my habit was so firmly established, it was already interfering with my normal life. Eating was a problem: I didn't hear Mum calling me in for dinner because when my head was in a book the rest of the world ceased to exist. Even when I got the message that food was on the table, it was difficult to eat with one hand propping a book open.

The habit took a back seat slightly during my teens as I found other outlets for my amusement: music, boys, that sort of thing. But my fate was sealed in my sixth form years by two things. First, a relationship with a poet. Not a famous one - just aspiring. But he wrote poetry for me and to me - and that was one of the most romantic things that had ever happened to me. The second was being introduced to a pantheon of writers I still love, which cemented my habit forever.

I don't know whether heroin addicts long to go to Amsterdam, Marakesh or wherever, but my equivalent is Hay-on-Wye, a town crammed with my own preferred type of dealer. I have to go there as often as possible.

When we bought our current house, the thing that really sold it to me was that it had three - in estate agents' speak - reception rooms: living room, dining room and - yes! a library! This room is now lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, mostly stacked two deep with books. Every place I have ever lived in has only felt like home once certain of my favourite tomes are ranged on shelves, and now I can wallow in the comfort of my sofa, surrounded by my literary heroes and friends.

This Christmas I received about eight books which are gratefully received even though I know I will have real problems finding somewhere to store them.

Throw some out? How very dare you!! I save and cherish books the way some people do stray animals, and with equal love. And I appreciate and adore my family and friends who feed my addiction. There may be a cure - there may even be a Readers Anonymous group I could attend. But as every addict knows, the first step to beating an addiction is the recognition of the need to break it, and of its negative effect on your life. And since the most negative thing I can find about reading is the occasional burnt dinner while I am absorbed in the latest tome, which fades into meaninglessness against the joy I derive from my habit, I cant see this addiction being broken any time soon.