I’ve just listened to a very thought-provoking programme on Radio 4 on tackling the decline in children’s reading. 

The prospect of a generation of young people who haven’t experienced the joy/pleasure/excitement of becoming engrossed in a good book is a sad one, indeed.

Just recently, in preparation for some work that had to be done on my house, I was forced to empty my bulging bookcases and, somewhat reluctantly, get rid of some of them to local charity shops.

In some ways, it felt like betraying ‘old friends’ who, over the course of my life, have entertained me, moved me, instructed and educated me, given me food for thought and inspired me (an old Spanish book fired me with the ambition to visit the Alhambra in Granada and a photo in my geography textbook eventually led me to Le Puy, for example).

There are, of course, many, many books that I’ll keep forever. Seeing them there on my shelves and touching them conjures up people and places, real and imaginary, from a lifetime of reading.

It’s not enough simply to bemoan this sad modern trend. We, as adults, need to promote reading to the young people in our lives and set an example by reading regularly ourselves.