At 2.30 a woman brought in what she described as ‘antique and collectable’ books. I understood this to mean books about antiques and collectables, but instead it was a plastic crate full of shabby mid-Victorian era fiction – a genre that is almost unsellable in the shop unless it is by someone well known (Rider Haggard, Oscar Wilde, the Brontës etc.). I bought two purely because they appealed to my puerile sense of humour: The Sauciest Boy in the Service and The Cock-House at Fellgarth.
