Why can’t I let go of my records?

I’m not a natural lender. I’m a reasonably soft touch when it comes to money, but regarding the important things in life – books, music, pens – I loan with a gently thrumming underscore of anxiety. While I’ve weaned myself off my mother’s habit of writing her name in every book she buys, I still tend to keep an internal inventory of where each one has gone, and when I’d like it back. Add in the fact that I’ve never possessed the zealot’s desire to convert others to my enthusiasms, and I’m forced to concede that I make a poor practitioner of the art of lending. Leonard Cohen was the same, apparently. As he confessed in ‘The Land of Plenty’: ‘Don’t really have the temperament to lend…’ In his case, it was a helping hand. In mine, it is mainly records.

When it comes to music, the etiquette used to be fairly simple. In pre-internet days, you would lend someone a record long enough for them to get a taste for it. If they liked the album, they might buy it themselves or tape a copy. (Remember the ‘Home Taping Is Killing Music’ campaign? It wasn’t, funnily enough; it was doing the opposite.) Investigations completed, within a matter of days you could expect your album to be returned. The arrangement was reciprocal and left everybody satisfied.

The code these days is more fluid. I’ve reached the stage in life where my children are borrowing significant chunks of my record collection. I love that my kids love music, and that we share some tastes while disagreeing wildly on others. Swapping playlists, going to gigs together, rooting around stores and record fairs are activities I treasure. They have grown up with an appreciation of music as a solid, physical presence – but have I taught them too well?