As reported I did go to the book shop. It has an area roughly the size of Bradford, every inch of which is packed to the roof with books. And of course I did find some that were not connected with vampires or male spell-casters; it would be a lie to say otherwise. It was just the idea of crawling through dark spaces, festooned with cobwebs and the desiccated remains of other foolish seekers of fresh ideas that barred my way.
There's nothing wrong with knitting but it just doesn't float my boat. Same with knot tying or renaissance bridge building, or prehistoric dentistry practises. All worthy subjects to be sure but not what I want to spend my rapidly dwindling reserves on. I even realise that book shops, already feeling the pinch, have to cater for the tastes of the majority. But are they the majority? I simply refuse to believe that the untold book buying armies of yesterday have deserted their pleasure to build wooden air planes or have polite tea parties, and abandoned the idea of reading anything else but the convoluted lives of impossibly handsome blood suckers and their equally winsome victims.
So I have a cunning plan.
There's a second hand book shop a few miles away. Populated, admittedly by bearded men clothed in cardigans that went out of fashion several millennia ago, and all wearing the same furtive expression one sometimes sees on the faces of people lurking about near the entrance of 'adult' book shops. I've left my mobile number with my friends and they'll know where I am and where I can be rescued should it be necessary. I've even collected up all their reading material with the promise that they'll get it back when I emerge unscathed, or at least un-arressted.
Who know what bounty I might find. For sure I'm not going to make the same mistake I made in my youth. This time I'll use my eyes and read the back of the books. How was I to know that Debbie wasn't the slightest bit interested in the sights of Dallas, or that 'Wired Hard' was nothing to do with computer construction.