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Anatole France described his literary criticism as ‘the adventures of my soul among masterpieces’. We cannot all be critics, in the sense that France was, but he surely spoke for everybody, reviewer or not, who takes reading seriously. Books do furnish a room, and the best books decorate a life. Although reading is an interior activity, as a book speaks directly to one person, one of the greatest joys in a well-lived life is reading in agreeable public places. The beach, where so many people do their annual reading, is not an agreeable place. The noise, heat and general irritation do not provide the reflection that one needs for serious reading, which is why most beach-loafers do not read seriously. In which case, why read at all?

Today’s big charities are slick operations that spend huge sums on running costs and marketing, says Ed Howker. Worse, many of them have been annexed by the government One Christian Aid week, aged seven, I collected charity envelopes with my mum from the terraced homes that rise out of the Calder Valley. Dressed in a blue anorak, I was every bit the budding charity mugger, but there is one doorstep I particularly remember: as usual we asked the occupier if they had ‘ever considered giving any money to Christian Aid?’ ‘Sorry,’ said the middle-aged woman, ‘I don’t give to charity.’ At the time, I thought that seemed monstrous: selfishness dressed-up like a principle.

If you’re disheartened by the politicisation of big charities, here’s a selection of smaller charities recommended by Spectator staff. If you’re disheartened by the politicisation of big charities, here’s a selection of smaller charities recommended by Spectator staff. For Dementia Living with someone who has dementia is very hard. The person you knew slowly disappears and you are left with a stranger who has changed almost beyond recognition. A sense of isolation descends, along with the feeling that no one quite understands what you — the carer — are going through. Which is where the charity For Dementia comes in.

Once upon a time, in the desolate Great Karoo, my father pointed out a distant line of bluegum trees marking the route Father Christmas was likely to follow when he came to deposit gifts under our Christmas tree. I was around four at the time, but even then I sensed something odd about Christmas in Africa. The cards on our mantelpiece depicted snow, but we’d never seen such a thing. Our windows were shuttered against heat, not icy blizzards. Even our Christmas tree was not a real Christmas tree, just a bough hacked off a thorn tree and draped with shreds of tinsel. But the four-year-old is a foolish creature, so I sat there for hours, peering hopefully into the sun-blackened immensity, waiting for Santa Claus to materialise.