I could have knelt down and kissed its carpet, I was so overjoyed. Because no matter how hoary the cliche is, the truth is you never recognise the true value of anything until it’s gone.

And what really hurts is, I thought I had.

When Oxford’s central lending library, adjacent to the Westgate Centre in Queen Street, shut last month so new automated machines for returning books could be installed, I arrogantly shrugged it off.

No big deal, I thought, I just won’t be able to take out anything new for a while.

But that was my undoing; naively, I just didn’t realise how big a hole its closure would leave in my life.

Not that I’m bookish you understand; far from it in fact.

I love libraries, yes, but not from a cerebral, academic point-of-view (which I know I should) but from a pragmatic, penny-pinching, pound shop mentality.

Which means libraries allow me to take out brand new books for FREE (titles I’d otherwise be drooling over in Waterstones), read them, and then return them weeks later, biscuit crumbs ‘an all, without any civil recovery initiative ever being instigated.

It’s such a great scam, always has been, and until recently was even condoned by our Government.

But scam or not, I hadn’t imagined just how great an emotional toll the library’s temporary closure would have on me.

Indeed, it was, for want of a better expression, like losing a friend.

Days crept by and everywhere I was reminded of my loss, be it in the empty space next to my bedside light, the slightly lighter weight of my shoulder bag, or by the myriad young women who, almost callously it felt, would taunt me by openly reading in public spaces.

And yes, I missed the books, but hell, I also missed the people – the librarians who I would hand my (usually late) returns in to; their winks when I’d rent out ‘art house’ movies with ‘18’ certificates; our shared disgust of watching people try to settle overdue fines with £20 notes.

It was all so cosy, so Midsomer Murders.

Imagine then my excitement when the library finally re-opened last week. It was so... intense.

The reassurance of its ‘hush’; the scapegoat mentality whenever a mobile went off; the charm of its extensive Mills & Boon collection (a motherlode of junior doctors called ‘Brad’).

In short, it was a return to paradise, albeit a self-service Eden, and, yes, I did feel like kneeling down and smacking a love-bite on its new mixed-fibre carpet.

Of course, it’s too clean at the moment, and the main reception area does feel a tad Starbucks’d – all slick and accessorised with slinky-shaped bookshelves.

But these are small criticisms.

The heart of the library still beats strong.

And I for one will never take it for granted again.