The weekend before last, I went to a fete in a small village not far from where I live. It was a typically English affair; loads of families with dogs, stalls groaning with plants, tables laden with household bric-a-brac (mismatched teacups, weird porcelain figures and squat glassware), cottage industry craftsmen and women selling handmade jewellery, soaps and cheeses. I had a great time wandering about chatting to people I knew, eating ice cream and watching the various entertainers perform, including a rather fabulous fire juggler. But the best thing about that fete for me? The attraction that held me for absolutely ages? The stand filled with used books.

Secondhand bookshops and stalls, to me, are the most seductive of creatures. I spot one and it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ll not get a coherent sentence or any sort of conversation out of me until I’ve picked through every rack, box and shelf at least twice – and then a third time to make sure I’ve not missed out on something marvellous that’s been hiding in plain sight. Needless to say, I walked away from that fete with a bagful of paper treasures and, of all things, ‘browsing sunburn’. (Yep, the great golden orb was actually out that day. Virtually unheard of in Britain because if there’s one thing you can count on in this country, it’s that any outdoor event you host or attend will be drizzled, rained and poured upon.)

What did I buy? A load of children’s books, including a vintage copy of Stig of the Dump, and a very tatty but lovely interpretation of Jack and the Beanstalk. The pre-loved gem that pleased me most, though? A dog-eared copy of Judith Krantz’s Till We Meet Again.

What?! I hear you say. Eighties bonk-buster trash? Jane! How could you? Continue reading →