​In The Polysyllabic Spree, his account of a year-long reading binge, Nick Hornby declared that “books are simply better than anything else.” He gets no argument from me. The book, as companion, stimulant, and entertainment is without equal as far as I’m concerned: I belong to three libraries, I cache books around the house the way a dipsomaniac stashes alcohol and in emergencies I resort to reading the labels on jam jars and shampoo bottles.  

I and fellow book-mad locals borrow well over 2 million items from our libraries each year, fossick through 50 tonnes of books at the Founder’s Book Fair and buy enough books to keep local booksellers (somewhat) solvent. We also attend book festivals like the Volume Mapua Literary Festival last month, or the upcoming Page & Blackmore Pukapuka Talks (previously Readers and Writers) at the Nelson Arts Festival in October. 

Why? On the face of it the answer seems obvious: we like books. Don’t we simply go to book festivals the way rugby enthusiasts attend rugby matches, or music lovers attend concerts? 

In early December I came to a stop in a dark pre-Christmas wood. Which fork should I take? The path that leads to Scrooge and The Grinch Who Stole Christmas? Or the path that leads to Harassed Christmas List-making and Gift-shopping! ​I chose The Way of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, because Christmas is a snow job … and even the snow is fake. 

Census results show that fewer New Zealanders identify as Christian than ever before, and more of us admit to having no religious belief at all. Growing numbers of us are Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish or Muslim. Rugby and the America’s Cup probably inspire more zealotry in New Zealand than any God. Which means that not many of us believe that a supernatural birth occurred in Bethlehem on the 25th of December 2017 years ago. ​ 

​Santa is the real God of modern Christmas. Images of the baby Jesus in a stable are displayed in shop windows almost interchangeably with images of Santa wreathed in holly and unreasonable, unseasonable snow. I imagine that some kids these days are so confused that they think it’s baby Santa they see napping in the hay. They may well think that the baby, grown paunchy and whiskery with age, has simply moved to cooler climes and swapped his swaddling clothes for red, fur-trimmed long-johns. 

Mr Trump is very fond of "alternative facts" and we ridicule and castigate him for it.

​But I've been wondering if his self-flattering fibs are so different from the air-brushed versions of our lives which we present on Facebook.

On Facebook we all lead perfect lives. On Facebook everyone’s life is packed with caring friends, doting parents, handsome lovers, adorable children and perfect pets. Everyone is talented and clever, and has a fascinating job. On Facebook everyone recycles, saves whales and rain forests, eats mountains of kale at the coolest restaurants, and goes on cycling tours of Outer Mongolia at the drop of a hat. 

No one on Facebook is lonely, unemployed, in debt, or suffers from acne, low self-esteem or depression. 
Let's start telling the truth on Facebook ... I’ll go first: 

​Dear Bookshop, 

I love you.
I love you because you are full of words and people who love words.
I love you because I always feel at home in you.
I love you for the company you offer.
I love you because you contain multitudes.
I love you because you've got room for everybody.
I love you because you are a time capsule, a storehouse and a treasure chest. I love you because you are a mirror and a window.
I love you because you are a magnifying glass, a microscope and a telescope.
I love you because you contain maps and guidebooks and sign-posts.
I love you because you contain prayer and poetry.
​I love you because you contain much that is strange and fabulous and yet you remain so familiar.
I love you because you are full of questions. I love you because you are full of answers.
I love you because you are full of voices. I love you because you are full of listeners.  
I love you because you harbour surprises, and jokes, and silliness and general foolishness.  
I love you because bookshops have survived book-burnings and censorship, war and economic upheaval, and
​might survive digital technologies too.

I hope so.

Yours very faithfully

Ro

​The book lust was upon me and a book token was burning a hole in my pocket when I visited Page and Blackmore’s bookshop last Saturday. It turned out to be New Zealand Bookshop Day and all kinds of celebratory bookish entertainments were on offer including tea and toast and random giveaways.

I like random give-aways as much as the next woman, but I really had to do something about the smoke spiralling from the back pocket of my jeans so I ignored the beverages - and the possibility of a freebie  - to browse the tables of appetisingly displayed books right away.

A change to my contract with Fairfax means I can't post my Grey Urbanist columns online until three months after publication in the Nelson Mail. 

Some of my columns (although not all) turn up on the Nelson Mail website.  
And they will certainly appear here. Eventually.