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My eldest hands me the title he recently read.

“You should read this,” he mentions, handing me a well-thumbed softcover, which I examine in my hands.

“Blue,” I reply.

“Yes, the cover is blue,” he answers. “Originally in another language, and the plot is subtle, but it's enjoyable.”

“Alright,” I answer. “I’m already reading a book, but I'll bring it on vacation.”

“Now I need a new book,” he comments. “Got any recommendations?”

This has never happened before. I've suggested countless books to my boys, but as far as I know none have been read. My wife also never reads the reads I endorse, despite the fact that I never skip the ones she recommends to me. Actual publishers at times seek me out to write endorsements, but at home my recommendations in these matters are neither wanted nor followed. But now.

“Let me see,” I say, stroking my chin. “Give me a moment.”

“I need to leave soon,” he says.

“My current read isn't great,” I confess, “The previous one I finished was your idea.”

“Death Comes for the Archbishop,” he says. “A great book.”

“My blurb would differ should I be approached to provide a blurb on the cover,” I remark. “Still, it was enjoyable.”

“My train leaves soon,” he says.

“Wait here,” I tell him.

I head to the lounge and, with uncharacteristic luck, immediately locate a particular hardback.

“Consider this,” I suggest. “I read it at launch. It's historical.”

“Which period?” he says.

“Do I look like a history expert?” I retort. “Olden times.”

“Huh,” he says, studying the front.

“Historical but humorous and enjoyable,” I clarify.

He pulls his Kindle from his carryall, taps in the title and returns the book.

“I'll check it out,” he promises, heading for the front door.

This feels like an important moment: the beginning of a new phase in which my counsel is both sought and heeded. I seek out the second son, planning to propose Death Comes for the Archbishop to him, but he isn't there.

I open the not-that-good book I am currently reading – close to completing – and think: what’s the point?

Fifteen minutes later I receive a cryptic text from my eldest. I read it over twice, but it's confusing. In time, it hits me that it must be a quotation from the book I recommended, a sample of the archaic speech used.

I take the title from the kitchen table and begin reading. In a little while I locate the precise phrase from the message, within the early pages. Yet at that moment my mouth is hanging open in horror.

“I remembered not one thing about it,” I confess to my spouse. “Not one character, no names, nada.”

“I rarely retain book details I’ve read,” she says.

“It’s not just that,” I clarify. “I thought I remembered parts about the first chapter which don't appear, that must be from a different book.”

“It's common,” she notes.

“I’m going around recommending books to friends and family,” I complain. “Novels I effectively didn't read.”

“You're getting older,” my spouse remarks. “Get over it.”

However, it bothers me. In bed that night I lie awake, looking at the books on my nightstand, striving to recollect a single salient fact from any book. I think of a quote on a book cover that says, “Historical yet humorous and quality.” The gathered wisdom of my entire reading history has vanished, I think, or in any case does not abide in me.

I start the mediocre novel that's in my hands – close to completing – and wonder: why bother?

Later that week I'm in the terminal, waiting on a seat close to the coffee shop alongside my spouse and other pairs. It is the shoulder season, when old people go on holiday together. All the travelers matches our generation.

Eventually, the topic turns to books: titles we've finished, or currently enjoying, or might read, or might recommend.

“It follows an archbishop to his end,” I mention. “Little occurs prior, but it's a solid read.”

Thankfully, my words go unheard. Someone else mentions a title that rings a vague bell in my fuzzy memory.

“Is it the blue book?” I inquire.

“Yes, blue cover,” she confirms.

“I see,” I respond, pulling from my luggage. “I am also reading the blue one.”