BETWIXTMAS – or Romjul, for those of you with more Nordic tastes – is a wonderful time of year to read. But not for doomscrolling on Twitter, hate-reading your secret-favourite tabloid, or even picking up that history book you got for Christmas – all this can wait. It is much more a time, I think, for getting thoroughly lost in a great work of fiction. (The only columns you should read, of course, are those dedicated to this pursuit.)

There is nothing cosier than curling up on the sofa, tucking oneself into bed, or – my particular favourite – sinking into a deep, steaming-hot bath with a good novel, to be transported to lands far away, times long gone or the minds of characters strange, sex-obsessed and sadistic. (Or perhaps that’s just me; I am currently reading Philip Roth.)

Many of you might think this sounds a little self-indulgent, and I am not immune to such concerns: my grandmother used to say that you should never read a novel before the evening because they’re “not serious things”. Male readers might be particularly prone to such thinking – studies suggest only 20 per cent of men read fiction, while 64 per cent of novels sold in 2021 in Britain were bought by women.