The book arrived. My enthusiasm had moved.

The notification was delighted to tell me that my book was ready. I was less certain. I had requested it during a brief period when I wanted to understand the entire history of shipping. That period had ended, but the library had no way of knowing.

I collected it anyway. There was something flattering about an object that had travelled through forty-two other appointments to reach mine. The cover was handsome. The book was heavy enough to make the handle of my shopping bag a practical concern.

At home I cleared a patch of table, made tea and opened it. By the fourth page I had met several men called Henry and developed a mild grievance against all of them.

I did try again.

I blamed the kitchen. The fridge was humming and there were dishes in the sink. The following evening I moved to the armchair, put a lamp on and read the same four pages. One of the Henrys had become an Edward. I could not tell whether this was progress.

Leila called. I told her about the book, including the queue, the reviews and the excellent paper. She asked whether I liked reading it. I said I respected it. She said that was not quite what she had asked.

There were other things I wanted to know about shipping. I still liked looking at maps. I simply did not want this particular book to occupy my evenings. That seemed an unnecessarily small reason to stop until I tried to name a better reason to continue.

Nobody had assigned it. I was not preparing for an exam or researching a decision. It was a book I had chosen for pleasure, during a month when my idea of pleasure apparently involved a great deal of cargo.

The return was undramatic.

I put the bookmark back in its drawer and the book beside my bag. On my next trip to the library I returned it. I did not explain the Henrys to the person at the desk. They were busy helping someone find a printer.

I wandered along a shelf and picked up a short collection of stories. I read the first page standing there. A woman had locked herself out while taking the rubbish down. I wanted to know what happened next. This was a much clearer recommendation than the ones I had been collecting on my phone.

I borrowed it and started again on the bus. At home I kept reading until dinner. The next evening I did not read at all. I had been hoping that enjoying a book would make me less complicated about books; I saw no need to complicate it immediately with a schedule.

Leila asked whether I had learned anything about shipping. I told her I had learned that a hold notification was not a summons. She asked if she could borrow the stories when I was finished. I reminded her that they were not mine, which was another pleasing feature of the arrangement.