Last night, after spending far too long bouncing from Netflix to Disney+ to Amazon Prime in search of a new series to watch, I had an epiphany. I could read a book right now instead. I practically felt my brain short-circuiting from the decision paralysis that the streaming platforms presented me with – I couldn’t even pick a genre, let alone a show. Yes, a book will be better, I told myself as I sidled over to my ever-growing TBR pile.

We all know what’s coming: faced with my stack of colourful spines, I butted up against exactly the same indecision. I’m not sure whether it’s the fact that time with a book feels more significant than the hours spent zoning out in front of a TV show, or that I have an inexplicable need to finish every book I start, but for me, choosing something to read rarely happens on a whim. There’s a reason why, in my friendship group, asking for book recommendations often comes out as a plea: “Just tell me what you’ve loved that you think I’ll love too.” And that’s before we’ve even started on the stab-in-the-dark bookshop dash that’s often involved when trying to choose a literary gift for someone.

“I make my living as a book butler – these are the perfect titles for every type of reader”