I have a problem. I’m addicted to buying books. I’ve well over a thousand books in my TBR list – which wouldn’t be a problem if I had the shelf space, but I’ve got them in stacks on the floor, towering up and up like something in a hoarder’s basement.

Of course, I fully intend to read them all, but I never have the time to catch up because I love buying more of them. You see, I just can’t resist a bargain book whenever I go out walking as far as the local shops, which are about a mile away. I can’t pass a charity shop without checking out the books in case they have an amazing bargain. I stare at them like a hungry person checking out the contents of their fridge. I very rarely come out without buying something.

On average I read three or four books per week, but I buy six or seven, so the pile keeps getting bigger. All my shelves have two layers of books squeezed onto them – and I put the ones I’ve read in a special section, organised into genres, authors, or size. My system doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I keep a few books near my computer, some near the couch by the TV, and more in a spare room – boxes marked READ and UNREAD that need sorting.

There’s also a few thousand in large boxes in my attic, dating back decades. They are the ones I don’t need to refer back to often. I couldn’t sell them, even though some are probably rare and valuable. I just NEED my books, okay?

Buying books is highly addictive. Here’s how bad it is:

Recently, my local library was closing for renovations, so they were selling off a large amount of stock for 20p each. What a mega-bargain! Naturally, I bought a load of heavy hardbacks, but I only had a couple of cheap plastic shopping bags with me. The bags were not good enough to carry so many without stretching and snapping. Nevertheless, I stuffed the books into them until I couldn’t carry more, then walked outside, feeling very pleased with myself for grabbing a deal.

It was during a bus strike so I had to walk home. No problem! I like walking, but I had not factored in the weight of my purchases. The books were so heavy I needed to stop several times because my arms ached. Some were huge art books, as heavy as concrete slabs. (I’m not kidding. They weighed several kilograms each.) But I carried them homeward – ignoring the pain. The bag handles cut into my palms, but they didn’t snap and I wasn’t going to give up. I kept going.

Eventually, the shopping bags split on the sides, so I had to carry the books in my hands for the last bit, with sweat running down my face, my muscles screaming. The pain in my arms and shoulders became so intense I considered leaving some of the books hidden somewhere, behind bushes and trees, but I persevered.

I wasn’t going to leave any books behind!

Against all common sense, I made it home with my haul, utterly exhausted. It was a huge victory, I believed, because I’d collected some great books for my collection.

I was very happy.

However, the next day, I woke up with my left hand swollen and throbbing. For some reason, I couldn’t flex my thumb without a sharp pain shooting up my arm. It was almost impossible to move my hand. I had to see a doctor who told me I’d damaged the tendons. To heal it, I needed to rest it for at least a month, take pain-killers and apply ice-packs. My hand is slowly recovering, but it still twinges and feels stiff.

Despite injuring my hand, I went back to the library the next day.

I found more books I absolutely required for my collection, but I couldn’t even use my left hand to pick them up. I had to ask a librarian to help me move them.

“How are you going to carry them?” she asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve brought a backpack.”

I practically emptied that library by myself, but I know one day I’ll read every single one of them.

I just have to find the time.