That's next year booked up…

It would appear I have managed to fool some people into thinking I might know what I'm talking about. I have been asked to be a judge for the Man Booker Prize next year.

Obviously it's a massive honour; it's not the sort of thing that comes along terribly often in one's life. I am massively humbled by the invitation. But I am from Scotland and we are noted for being a dead brainy and intellectually aware country.

The invitation allowed me to reflect on my relationship with books throughout my life. My parents always had books around the house, but academic books rather than novels or books for pleasure. My dad studied child psychology for a while, in the days when he worked in a List D school, the uniquely Scottish euphemism for borstal. And my mum, a working-class immigrant from India to east Africa, had a very reverential attitude towards books: she would get very upset if they were left lying on the ground. It was only some years later she told us that they grew up with only a handful of books, precious objects that had to be loved and protected. Books for both my parents signified learning and education.

Yet for us books meant homework. Like most kids I was never great at being told what to do. Being told to read books, what to think about them and what conclusions to arrive at in order to pass an exam sucked the pleasure out of book-based pursuit. Also, prescribed texts rarely capture the imagination. Luckily a few did and it was those that made me realise that books gave you your own pictures, and led you silently into new worlds with new people. Books met your imagination halfway and the result was a truly unique experience. It was the difference between reading to remember and reading to forget.

The first book I remember taking a complete hold of me was 1984 by George Orwell. I was up till three in the morning as a 14-year-old, the night before double physics with Mr Grubb, a class that required the full requisite of wits and not the addled mind of a late-night reader. I spent the morning of my 16th birthday reading Animal Farm, a book which sparked an interest in politics. Shortly afterwards I read the Communist Manifesto: I borrowed it from the school library but refused to return it having realised that all property was theft. In among the political works of Engels and Marx I found time to revel in the beauty of Iain Crichton Smith's The Last Summer, one of the most touching and lasting stories of growing up. Then followed all the usual suspects: Catcher In The Rye, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Wasp Factory, Jeff Torrington's astonishing Swing Hammer Swing!.

Then came Lanark by Alasdair Gray, the single book that utterly changed my life. A book about Glasgow, about the past, about the present and about the future: a book without which I doubt I would be a writer. I read as much Gray as I could lay my hands on.

And the whole experience seems to have come full circle. Having enjoyed reading and managed to elevate it up and beyond homework I am now faced with the daunting prospect of the Man Booker. The single thing people say in response to the news that I am to judge arguably the most esteemed literary prize in the world is: "Do you know how many books you have to read?" I do. Around 120. Take a minute now and think about how many books that is. I don't think I own 120 books. I don't think I have read 120 books in the whole of my life. Yet between now and next autumn I will have to read 120 books. I'll let you know next year whether reading is still a pleasure.

Souper solution for Christmas leftovers

We've all been there: Boxing Day and a fridge full of food. Given I have a reputation to uphold when it comes to cooking, the pressure on me to create is somewhat heightened. The fact that I fed three courses to 18 folk only the previous day is well and truly forgotten. You'll be glad to know after much humming and hawing and staring into the abyss that was the open fridge I decided to innovate. I made Boxing Day soup. It's quite simple. Fry some leeks and garlic and tip in all the leftovers: and I mean ALL. Half a bottle of wine and a handful of thyme and you have Boxing Day soup. Well, it beats bubble and squeak.

My father's son… but with more of a kick

I grew up in a tea-drinking house. Every morning we would be awoken by strong, malty tea. My dad has had a healthy obsession with the stuff ever since I can remember. He would happily spend Saturday afternoons hunting down a new blend that promised a tastier flavour or a deeper golden colour. Dad would choose the correct tea pot, heat the milk, select his favourite mug and enjoy the results. My elder brother is a tea man, no doubt influenced by my dad; my younger brother is similarly appeased by a cuppa. I, however, like in so many other instances, seem to have fallen slightly further from the tree. I'm a coffee guy. After three lovely days with the folks in Glasgow, drinking all the tea my over-sized body can handle, I was glad to return home to my can of Italian blend and my filter. But there's one thing I have realised. Although my drink may be different my obsession is still the same. I too will pick the right mug, the right brand and the correct filter. In many ways I am still my father's son, although – given the extra caffeine – perhaps slightly more twitchy.

A triumph for plane speaking

I was on the plane to Glasgow last week, a full flight as you might expect so close to Christmas Day. During the calm before the announcements regarding emergency exits and scratch-cards, a wee contretemps kicked off at the seat bedside me. A lady turned round and told the wifie (and she was a wifie) behind her to stop kicking the back of her seat. It seemed a little full-on as an opening conversational gambit and I might have advised a more conciliatory approach. The wifie's retort was beautiful: "I can assure you there's naebody here kicking your seat, although I cannae now vouch for it not happening fur the next hour."

The moral of the story: dinnae mess wi a Glesga wifie on a budget airline close to Christmas.