The things that we hold most precious can sometimes be a bit arbitrary. The faded, tattered Wembley bookmark in the photo is one that I’ve had – and used – for most of my life, certainly getting on for fifty years. It was given to me when I was a football-mad boy, and I have only vague recollections of who the giver was.

I think I liked it at first because of the obvious footballing connection, but there was something about its tactile nature too. It was a softer material than most bookmarks I’ve had before or since, and it was pleasing to the touch, but after a point it just became my bookmark. Although I’ve always got a few bookmarks knocking around (if you’re ever at a touristy gift shop, bookmarks are a first rate low-cost option, and you can never have too many of them) but the vast majority of the books that I’ve read over the years have had my progress through them marked with this one slip of (apologies to my vegan friends) leather. It’s been with me through books that I’ve loved, books that I’ve loathed and everything in between. The relationship between a reader and their favourite authors can feel precious, and this bookmark was there on my first dates with the likes of Nick Hornby, Douglas Coupland, Christopher Brookmyre and even JRR Tolkien.

It’s still my go to bookmark when I reach for a new book, and the number of books that it’s shared with me is probably well into four figures by now. It’s of little if any financial value, and yet I would feel it’s absence profoundly if it were ever lost. When some clumps broke off from the non-tassled end a few years ago, I genuinely felt a twinge of sadness, worrying that perhaps it was the first sign of the bookmark’s imminent demise. If bookmarks, like dogs, come to resemble their owners, it’s worth noting that I made it into my 50s – definitely on the downward stretch of my own physical journey – before the bookmark started to deteriorate. Reader, you’ll be pleased to know that the bookmark has rallied and seems to have stabilised in its current condition.

What’s the point of all this? Probably nothing. Just musing on a much-loved connection with my childhood and a life-long love of books. Now, of course, I’m responsible for adding bookmarks into the world myself. If you’ve spent any time talking with me over the last couple of years, I’m sure I will have thrust one of my promotional bookmarks (double sided for Dead Man Singing and Foul and Fair) at you, and come September you can bet your TBR list that there will be a new design to help with promoting Imogen Imagine. I don’t for a moment imagine that anyone will form the kind of attachment with those that I have with my old battered, faded strip of red leather, but I’d love to think that some people might come to love my books the way I love my own favourite reads.