I recently went on an innocent trip to a Sandy charity shop the other week with my three year old son. After I had idly scanned the bookshelves for a short while, the mildly scary lady serving behind the counter asked if I was looking for men’s books
.
“Er…not really”, I replied, “I’m not really sure what you mean by men’s books anyway. Ha ha…”
“I’ve got a load out the back I can show you” she said. I think it was at this point I got worried. Only the presence of the aformentioned toddler reassured me that she might not be wishing to expose me to her special stash of second-hand charity shop mank.
Obediently, my son and I ventured into the back to be confronted with the predictable box of Michael Crichton and Tom Clancy clones*. “Men’s books I call them”. Some relief, I can tell you.
I always thought the back of the charity shop would be filled with untold delights that are kept back from the common herd. Unfortunately, I now know that I merely have to wait for the box of men’s books
to clear before anything good appears. Sue Ryder is much better anyway.
* Not that I mind such things, being a keen Frederick Forsyth fan myself when he’s not being pants. I’ve also just read She by H. Ryder Haggard (bought from a charity shop) which is hardly pitched at the female market**.
** And is not, in my opinion, as good as Allan Quartermain, which is also better than King Solomon’s Mines***.
*** Which, I would agree with Mr Haggard himself, is much better than Treasure Island.