When life is tumbling out of control, I go to my happy place, where I can dream, remember and find order in chaos: I gaze upon my bookshelves.

Bookshelves are back, with sales up by more than 10% in John Lewis. There’s the rise of the “shelfie” – a photo of one’s library; bookshelves are a cool way to divide open-plan living, and e-readers are falling from fashion because we prefer the beautiful-looking objects produced by contemporary publishers.

For many of us, bookshelves never went away, but it is heartening to learn that they are newly desirable. Displaying the books we love or the books that made us, or even books to impress, is a civilising impulse. Beginners at these newfangled shelves have so many exciting questions ahead: do they arrange their books thematically or alphabetically?

I adore nosing around other people’s shelves, and I’ll admit one judgmental attitude – that sinking feeling when I enter a home without books. Honestly, though, my bookshelves are not for display, but for my own pleasure. And a Kindle can’t match that.

Today’s unlimited information makes the boundedness of bookcases profoundly comforting. My inner librarian is also soothed by arranging books. When my young children go to bed and I’m confronted by their daunting mess, my favourite activity is tidying their bookcase.

Away from these shelves, I’ve got separate cases for my fiction and non-fiction. The non-fiction is a bit functional, although I’m fond of my new nature-writing section. Every shelf-lover can become their own prize judge, so Charles Foster nestles alongside Helen Macdonald, Richard Mabey and Robert Macfarlane at the top of my personal hierarchy.

My happiest of happy places is my fiction bookcase, which begins with Monica Ali’s Brick Lane and ends with Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. Each spine is a sliver of memory; some for the stories they tell, many more for being fragments of my own autobiography. Ali triggers memories of renting a flat in Brick Lane in my 20s; Woolf takes me to my teens and an inspirational English teacher, Peter Newson, who revealed life’s big questions through Mrs Dalloway.

The biggest question for every bibliophile when they move in with a loved one is: do we merge collections?

Mrs Dalloway believed that love and religion would destroy the privacy of the soul; she’d agree with me that merging collections threatens the same. But perhaps those taking shelfies are right and books are soul music, made for sharing on gloriously open shelves.

Pooh for president

Winnie the Pooh ‘recognises the crucial importance of bees’. Photograph: Cine Text / Allstar/Sportsphoto Ltd / Allstar

One of my old books now relocated to the children’s shelves is Winnie the Pooh. The Bear of Very Little Brain is apparently such a threat to the Chinese government that he’s being removed from social media. Is Pooh “illegal content” because some liken him to President Xi Jinping? If I were president, I would be delighted. Rereading Winnie the Pooh for my children is a total joy. A bear who is so funny, who invents brilliant hums (my kids are tiddly-pomming all over the place), who recognises the crucial importance of bees, and who is an emotionally intelligent problem solver is a much-needed leader for our times.

Prize your messy garden

Get used to an overgrown garden: it will be a haven for wildlife. Photograph: Alamy

A video of a young goldcrest refusing to leave the messy nest that is professional gardener Harriet Rycroft’s hair has gone viral. It’s an amusing paean to tangles. In her blog, Rycroft notes a huge increase in wildlife since she left her lawn to grow long. I have recently rewilded my lawn, and I’m logging far more butterflies in the Big Butterfly Count. Overgrown gardens require a mental readjustment but a wild tangle is much richer than a tightly trimmed sward.