I have always maintained that it is impossible to own too many books.

I still believe this. However, I have recently reached the stage where I can’t see all my books because they’re hidden by…another row of books, which is topped by…a further pile of books. Other books, despairing of ever reaching the precious shelves, have taken up residence on my desk and nestled on the floor next to the shelves.

My husband, completely failing to understand my obsessive book hoarding collecting mindset, has taken to urging me with increasing exasperation to move many of them to The Loft. (Apparently, it is unacceptable to have books falling onto the keyboard when he does his accounts.)

I have tried to explain that I need (ok, really, really want) all my books to hand because you never know when they might be required. For instance, finishing Jodi Picoult’s ‘Nineteen Minutes’ made me want to re-read Lionel Schriver’s fantastic ‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’. Immediately. Sometimes, when I’m tired and want something to soothe me to sleep without the excitement of a new plot or voice, I need my old favourites to hand: ‘Pride and Prejudice’ or ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ or ‘Notes on a Small Island’. Spotting that Janet Evanovich has a new book out might inspire me to read one of her older ones. A comment on a blog might lead me to grab a book I purchased recently but haven’t felt compelled to start yet. Or I might just want to browse my options thoroughly before committing a new book to the currently-reading pile on my nightstand.

I want to be able to do any or all of these things when I think of them, which includes at three in the morning when insomnia drives me to get up, eat noodles and snuggle up with a blanket on the settee.

I am not fooled by the notion that it is ‘easy to get them down again’. The Loft is not a place I can access whenever I like. In fact, it is Out of Bounds for the majority of the day. If my little boy is asleep, the loft ladder is far too noisy to operate. If he’s awake, I want to be in rescuing reach for when his wobbly balance fails and he needs a reassuring cuddle. Clambering down a shaking ladder yelling, “Just a minute, Pickle!” then dashing into the bathroom to wash loft dust off my hands is not going to have the same reassuring effect. Besides which, the sound of the loft ladder makes him cry.

Of course, I blame myself. A few months ago, having reached a similar impasse, I agreed to box up some of my books (mostly YA, as I admit I am more A than Y these days) and put them in The Loft. I was mollified by my ability to tidy the remaining books into alphabetical and height order and had to admit that my study looked quite nice. This was obviously a disastrous giving of ground on my part and I am determined it won’t happen again.

So, I refuse to box up my books, sell them, give them away or change them to e-editions (sacrilege!). For many years, on-and-off, I have pretended that I will simply stop buying more, relying instead on the library, but this is clearly Not True. Therefore, the only possible solution is a bigger study with more bookcases. Clearly, this will necessitate building an extension. In the meantime, I wonder whether I could persuade my husband to replace the desk with more bookcases?