Found out today that’s the title of one of the 12 (!) volumes of Anthony Powell’s Dance To The Music of Time. Never read it – wasn’t it on the Beeb? The reason I’m writing is merely a pat on my own back for finally carrying out a book-organising task at home.

Now, I know colour-coding books is considered somewhat over, but I still find it cute. And without it – well I know it’s heresy to say it, but if you’re just filling one alcove by your fireplace with all your books in random order then you end up with an identikit front room, with the same mix of tube-reading classics and West Wing DVDs proudly displayed as everyone else. Books are beautiful, but I don’t know I’d class my Time Out Paris or Alan Titchmarshes’ Complete Gardener as worth showing off.

That’s why I was so pleased to find rows of bookshelves installed behind the door to the basement in my flat. Six months in and I finally got around to furnishing them.

Leaving only my very favourites out in a pretentious display. For anyone interested in what’s here exactly, it’s four fifths Penguin Poets, and one fifth Penguin Plays, both of which I’m trying to collect without resort to eBay.