Top shelf: a batch of bestsellers. Picture: Sarah Lee

Every year at the Observer, as the Christmas season approaches, my colleagues and I indulge in the annual rite known as Books of the Year, in which we invite our regular critics, and other illuminati from the world of books, to nominate their favourite reading of the year.

I'm well aware that this ancient procedure is the subject of the fiercest satire in the book press. "Annual log-rolling/back-scratching" is probably the nicest thing you will hear about it. And yet, on balance, I think it does have some value.

Generally, I find that contributors to Books of the Year exercise the greatest care in making their nominations, and are acutely attuned to accusations of favouritism, falling over backwards to be above reproach. The upshot is a feature that I know Observer readers generally enjoy.

It is also a feature that identifies books that may have missed the reviewers' attention. As long ago as the mid-50s, it was EM Forster's recognition of William Golding's Lord of the Flies that first propelled the novel onto the bestseller lists. No doubt blog readers can think of other examples.

So in common with our rivals, here at the Observer we shall be doing another Books of the Year in the run-up to Christmas - and no doubt there will be the usual complaints from the usual suspects. That's as predictable as the Christmas party bores.