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Two wise people had similar messages when it comes to the subject of kids. “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” said one. “I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way,” said the other. The first was Jesus, the second, Whitney Houston. Ten points to Gryffindor if you correctly guessed both.

I wouldn’t normally sling quotes from Eighties ballads and the New Testament together with such reckless abandon, but in this instance I feel compelled to. For some deeply distressing news has come to light: half of UK adults no longer read regularly, according to a new survey conducted by the Reading Agency. And the only bright spot I can see on the horizon is that the younger generation could still turn things around.

In one way, I don’t even blame the grown-ups involved. After the initial shock of seeing those figures – which also found that 15 per cent of UK adults have never read regularly for pleasure – I started to unpack my own literary habits. I’ve always classed myself as a Reader with a capital R, never knowingly without at least one book on the go. I used to carry a tome in my bag at all times – the idea of getting stranded somewhere, bookless and alone, being the stuff of nightmares. I used to eagerly anticipate an afternoon with nothing but a novel on the to-do list – stretched out on the sofa like a cat in a strip of sun, or curled up listening to the rain, devouring chapters as hours ticked by unheeded. I used to have a library card, belong to a book club, pack seven books for a week-long holiday and even (cringe) queue overnight to secure the latest Harry Potter releases.

But somewhere along the line, things changed. When was the last time I really, properly settled in for a good page-turning session? When was the last time I remembered to pop my current reading material in the rucksack, “just in case”?

My avid reader identity, previously as immutable as the fact that I have blue eyes and hate coriander, had been eroded over time until there was nothing left but the perfunctory paragraph or two I managed before bed. It wounds me to admit, but both I and so many formerly bibliophile friends are the 35 per cent defined by the “Reading State of the Nation” report as “adults who used to read but have now stopped”. And I put the blame squarely on technology.

When I analyse how the switch from “avid” to “occasional” took place, it nearly always comes back to devices. Mornings spent reading over a bowl of cereal have evolved into scrolling in bed; quiet evenings spent rifling pages because “there’s nothing on telly” have given way to binge-watching streaming services because there’s always something on telly. The train journeys, solo coffees, waits for friends at the pub – in fact, all the insignificant strips of dead time that accumulate over the course of a day – previously filled by whipping out a fantasy novel or juicy biography are now firmly in the custody of social media, WhatsApp and Netflix.

We’re so used to consuming the world in snippets, in fact – tweets, posts, DMs, clips, episodes – that centring the mind on reading for more than a few minutes, even when you’ve made the conscious decision to do so, can be tough.

The survey found that a lack of time was the primary deterrent to adults reading (33 per cent), followed by the struggle to focus our attention (28 per cent) and the distraction of social media (20 per cent). Some 30 per cent of UK adults say that they find it challenging to finish what they’re reading, while 11 per cent report finding reading difficult in general. It paints a gloomy picture of the grown-up/written-word relationship.

Young people are floundering even more; almost one in four (24 per cent) of those aged 16 to 24 say they’ve never been readers, and research has found this age group faces the most barriers to reading. A separate report called “What Kids Are Reading” also showed a “particularly acute” decline in reading among secondary school students.

It is here that I must return to our great white hope according to both the Lord and the Voice: the children. If you ask me to picture someone who is genuinely passionate about reading, my eight-year-old niece pops into my head. Watching her make the at-first-slow, then ever-so-rapid journey from being just about able to read a road sign to almost anything that crosses her path has been nothing short of magical. Seeing her discover the books of our youth and introduce me to new ones I’d never heard of (big up Indiana Bones) with the unbridled enthusiasm of someone who still lives a life unencumbered by Donald Trump memes is a thing of purest joy.

As she tells me at rapid-fire pace about the latest narrative that’s bewitched her – so excited she can barely get the words out fast enough – I feel a tsunami of nostalgia sweep over me. Memories spring forth of reading by torchlight under the covers with half an ear out for my mum; the audacious thrill of staying up when I should have been sleeping; the feeling of being physically unable to stop because the story in my hands was so gripping. Yes, it’s giving Theresa May running through a field of wheat in terms of rebelliousness – but what a rush it felt at the time!

It makes me want to chuck the Android into the sea, rediscover my inner child, and give her a book to really sink her chops into – the unputdownable kind that keeps you frantically devouring till 2am. Somewhere along the way, we collectively forgot what a gift reading is. We let ourselves get distracted by shiny new toys. We convinced ourselves that reading was “worthy” and “hard work” and that we no longer had the attention spans nor stomach for it.

But learning to read – and suddenly being able to dive into infinite stories, go on infinite adventures, escape into infinite new worlds, whenever you damn well please – is the closest thing to a miracle many of us will ever experience. And so I have faith we can find our way back to books. Because, to quote my girl Whitney once more: “There can be miracles, when you belieeeeeeeeve!”