Out on the field, vast hairy-backed men are heaving the Big Top's tent pegs out, packing up, elephants and all and trundling out of town - leaving naught but depressions in the grass, healing over time to faint discolorations and eventually, not so much as a blot on the landscape. Time to pause and reflect, what does New Zealand Book Month mean to me? 

Firstly, new books. Those glorious tangible treasures, never in any danger of replacement by inferior electronica (especially not in Dunedin where a well-stacked bookshelf provides edification as well as insulation). Nothing, absolutely nothing, beats messing about in new books with their creamy pages, strong virgin spines and glossy covers. To feel in your hand the palpable weight of love, labour and great expectations. 

Secondly, for me at least, this NZBM allowed a peek behind the flyleaf to discover a hitherto hidden cast of jugglers, acrobats and high wire experts; those publicists, publishers and editors who keep balls and batons in the air, graciously bowing out only moments before the curtain goes up - revealing the author in all her glory. 

Thirdly, embracing the temporary role of reviewer I had the temerity to admit to less than enjoying 'the Scottish book,' while simultaneously predicting its global success. This was unwise, the resulting expectorant perhaps illustrating why NZ new releases are oft given such glowing reviews in the NZ press. Like a flock of humourless crows, hell hath no fury like the fans of T.K. Roxborogh. I felt like a medium-sized grass snake, mistaken for a deadlier cousin and mashed to pieces with the garden rake by an hysterical, colour-blind housewife. But such loyalty is really rather wonderful. Just imagine if every NZ author had a court of champions, ready to duel unthinkingly for their honour: we'd be Queening it over the rest of the world.  

So, with a final pachydermal trumpet, huzzahs and halloos we wave our hankies at this year's departing Book Month. Wasn't it wonderful? Home grown talent on display, it brings a proud tear to the eye. Oh, how the NZ reading public vows to support NZ literature evermore - at least until the next Dan Brown comes out.