Men and sheds and Men and lists are two subjects I stay away from. Supposed to be elements of maledom. Really? I aim to keep clear of them. Sheds are alien to me, have never played any part in my life. There was no way they could anyway in my early days; born in a council flat in the North of England, no garden, there was no oppportunity. Nor have I ever hankered to stay for hours on end in a small wooden box, even if it does have a door and windows. What's the point? Even moles come out for air.

Lists are the same. I don't see any reason for anyone to carefully, in my eyes pedantically, itemise their top ten albums, top fifty cars, top anything. Nick Hornby fetished this behaviour, so for a while, in the bizarre and overexcited manner that only media hype can attain, list making actually became fashionable. Why? Still is in some magazines. Top thirty things to do before you're thirty. This is n't fun, it's prescriptive, do this, do that. Not too good for anyone with anxiety either "I've not done these yet....why? Something's wrong! ".

Don't think I'm fundamentalist on this point, I do myself actually have a list - it's not top ten style, though. Not anywhere as dramatic. It's the stuff I really need to do, that I should n't forget, must not forget; pole position, right at the top is "remember to go to work", and straight underneath that is " stay awake, it's only eight hours." You can understand these are important. If I think about, that's not even a list, it's really a set of exhortations. It's do this or tie a knot in my hankerchief.

I have, because it's known that I'm a keen reader, been asked by many people, which of all the books I've read are my favourites. List like, don't you think. I shy away from that, not the way a woodland animal withdraws before the sound of humans, no, more basic, I can't do it. It's as if I've been questioned on the shape of a snowflake, one from last year as well. Impossible. Books can't be listed. They're about the mood they evoke; the drama of the writing; distinct, defined characters with unruly, uncommon, unusual inner lives; prose that has to be copied into a commonplace book because of the sheer elegance of the writing. It's about externals: what was happening at the time you cracked open the pages and settled into reading it; about where you where, who you were with, or were n't. Is there anything harder to classify and sort into priorities?

Still, if I'm pressed, been button-holed by someone who really will not take no as answer, then I'll put forward one book that I've enjoyed immensely, mainly because it's hit all the buttons. Herzog by Saul Bellow. Been in and out of that for over twenty - five years. It's a book I enjoy, not the top of any list.