Last September, I started walking to the library every day. As a University College London alumnus, I get free membership of both the Senate House library and the university’s main library. It is 90 minutes door to door, at a thinking pace, the perfect stretch of time during which to fuss over whatever is bothering me (a sentence, a professional hurdle, a private conversation) then gradually forget all about it and just let my mind wander too. That’s what the walk does. It unknots me.

That the destination is a library only compounds that. The beep when I swipe in with my card is the loudest thing I’ll hear all day. The necessary quiet of the space gentles my every gesture. I open doors more quietly. I pull chairs out from behind tables more carefully. I set up my station and sit down more promptly. And then I breathe.

All around me are these old tomes with clothbound covers – exactly the kind of books I used to look for as a child in my library at primary school. At that age, already, I often felt the need to escape the busyness of the world outside and I’d latch on to the oldest hardbacks as the best place to go for a good story.

These days, it is online we are all trying – if momentarily – to escape. Well, this really is the place to do that. It is not that I need to consult an art history book for every piece of journalism I write, but doing so inevitably yields different details from only Googling an artist: a quote, say, from a 1970s catalogue no one has thought to digitise, or the title of a piece an artist mentioned seeing when they were a student in the 1980s.

Also, just looking up from my laptop for the kind of regular break physios or optometrists sternly recommend now brings excitement, not dread. Instead of seeing the many chores (laundry, admin, clutter) that crowd my tiny workspace at home, my eyes land on a sea of titles. I’ve started photographing stacks of books. It is like concrete poetry.

I got to Senate House early the other morning and picked an empty room at random, only to realise at 10am that I was in the German literature section, surrounded by titles that composed something unexpectedly lyrical when put together (Light Beneath the Horizon; So I Sat Then Between All the Seats; Twilight). In the art history section, I’ve felt a certain thrill at reconnecting with the kind of Big Book you have to consult repeatedly as a student (Erwin Panofsky’s Early Netherlandish Painting) but that you then somehow never lose, like furniture in your mind. This week I opened a book on Cy Twombly and glitter drifted out from the creases. You see what books do? Someone was inspired …

If I’m cold or jittery, I’ll go downstairs and kind of melt into the noise of the coffee shop. If I’m stressed, I’ll walk to the Frank Auerbach section. And when I’m done, if there’s time, I walk home. No day at the office or WFH has ever felt as good.