Peter ambled to the phone box. He lived directly opposite, in one of the small white cottages with a small, haphazard, hollyhock-invaded front garden. He hated gardening, whereas he liked to keep the small library in the old red box neat as a pin. He drew the line at magazines as they were not easy to display (and anyway, who wanted to read ‘Trucking Tirelessly’?). And his new neighbour, Heather, had recently requested more adult fiction and creative magazines, such as ‘Sewn Up’. People had unrealistic expectations, he surmised.

It was nearing the end of summer and he could see the usual piles of books from a school holiday clear-out. He had been keeping aside the Christmas-themed books, planning to introduce them to the shelves in November.

Whilst flicking through ‘Blinging Baubles’, written by an ex-Love Island contestant, a pink post-it note fell out. ‘Not everybody should write for a living. If you want to get through the next Christmas with your brain cells functioning, don’t read this book.’

Well, well, well, thought Peter. We have a book reviewer in our small village. He wasn’t a reader himself. He preferred dogs. Walking, training, and swimming with them in cold salty water. He owned four scruffy cross breeds, and they were like a small skilled SAS unit. They walked obediently at his side without leads and when asked to ‘sit’, there was an immediate response.

Peter found more notes as he sorted through the donations. ‘Snowing in my Heart’ attracted his attention by its ridiculous title and illustration of a vivid lime green heart laying in a snow drift. The review read: ‘Started out ok but didn’t feel anything for the protagonist and it was highly unlikely that she would bump into her stalker in the middle of a field in Denmark. Read this if you don’t mind wishy-washy conclusions and strident males.’

Clearly this reader enjoyed Christmas fiction but couldn’t find a decent story, hence the post-it notes. Was this one of those Christmas-obsessed people with Christmas trees up all year round, he wondered? Did they live in the village. The people at Slack Farm seemed to have fairy lights on their holly bush all year round. Or maybe they just couldn’t be bothered to remove them each year.

Two can play at this game, he thought. He looked at the cover of ‘Christmas at Pear Tree Cottage’: a pink thatched cottage with lights twinkling on a Christmas tree by the front door. Taking up his trusty black Japanese rollerball pen, he wrote on a post-it note, ‘What a joy this book was from the beginning to the end. This has filled my empty heart with comfort and renewed faith in mankind.’

By the time Peter had written a few more positively cheesy reviews, he was getting bored. He wrote of ‘One More Present Under the Tree’, ‘I was shocked by such explicit and daring writing. This reader has had many stimulating evenings recently and I had to resist racing ahead to the big reveal. I was not disappointed and will have to reconsider my gift to the wife this year.’

To his surprise, he realised he was having fun. He headed to the kitchen to feed the hounds and pour himself a whiskey. A surge of feeling descended upon him and he felt not for the first time, a little alone. Gulping down the fiery brown liquid, he headed out for the last walk of the day.

Someone was in the phone box. They were standing on tiptoes and reaching up to the top shelf. He hung back and whispered “sit” to his dogs. Maybe this was the reviewer… it was the new neighbour, he realised. Her red hair caught the light of the evening sun. A green check blouse tight across her ample breasts. She spotted him.

“Hello there, just swapping out some books,” she said. “I was hoping to see you, would you like to come over for my Christmas dinner rehearsal on Sunday? I like to remind myself how to cook the turkey and all its trimmings before the big day. I’ve made my own Christmas pudding, crackers too. My late husband used to do all the cooking, so I need to know what I’m doing when the kids visit this year.”

Likely story, he thought to himself, catching the aroma of pine needles in the air. “Thank you,” he said, smiling. “That sounds lovely. Shall I bring some mulled wine?”