It seems to have gone out of style these days, but once upon a time no self-respecting progressive home could be without a copy of that hymn to self-help, Desiderata.

As Seventies as a Space Hopper or a pair of Oxford bags, the poem would usually be stuck up on the kitchen wall, motivationally close to the calendar and to-do list, or on the lavatory door, presumably because it was somewhere you’d have time to mull it over.

“You are a child of the universe,” it told you. “No less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.”

And for the rest of the day, along with all those positive thoughts, you’d have that hippy-trippy song on a loop tape in your head.

Desiderata might have been a bit hokey, but it had a lot of decent advice, some of which I, for one, would still do well to heed: I’m thinking particularly of the bit that talks about “surrendering gracefully the things of youth”, and the part that says that if you compare yourself to others, you may become vain or bitter.

“Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery”, it goes on, and don’t we credit-crunchers know it.

“Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit”, it says; to which some might add, if you’re bit like that yourself, pipe down.

But the bit that has stayed with me most is that part that says: “remember what peace there may be in silence”.

Ah, silence. I remember that. The last time I got anywhere near to it was on a remote hillside with a view of the sea. The spring flowers were out, there was thyme under my feet, the sun was shining and as I hauled myself up to the hill-top, I became aware that there was nothing to disturb me but the sound of my own out-of-condition lungs; and when I got my breath back, there was nothing whatsoever.

There was a road in the valley below, but no noise had made it up as far as my perch. It was a long time before I could make myself go back down.

This weekend I was out in the back garden hoping for some more of it. In my head, I had it all worked out: the long, cool drink, the page-turning book, the sunny corner, the comfortable chair.

What I had painted out of the picture was the need for people to fix their bikes and mow their lawns; the clamour of children and our attention-seeking cats; the road noise and the bass beat of someone’s music system.

I could always go off to the library for a bit of peace and quiet… or could I?

Not if a ghastly notion by Gloucestershire County Council takes hold. Some bright spark has come up with the idea of piping pop music into the hushed surroundings of its libraries, presumably in case anyone should feel it’s too quiet to read a book.

One startled user, a retired university lecturer, has already complained about having to browse the shelves to the improving strains of the Sugababes.

The librarians turned the noise down, but the council is unrepentant: “Libraries are not just about books any more,” a spokesman is reported as saying, somewhat sniffily.

Sounds to me like they could do with a copy of Desiderata.