More things found in books...

This is from the days when photos were the same size as the negatives . I wonder how many of the people in this picture are still alive.
That gives an added dimension to the phrase 'massaging your ego'. I love the four-digit telephone number, but what did she get up to in the mornings?

Is that a broken nose, or simply an unfortunate one?

I don't know anything about military badges, but this looks like the insignia of an army in a totalitarian state.

This is somewhere in Wales where very little happens. If you enlarge the image, you'll see that a woman pushing a pram has caused a group of men to stop and stare.

This drawing was quite unrelated to the school textbook book I found it in.

This photo fell out of a romantic novel. Is it the portrait of a sweetheart, son or stranger? We'll never find out and that's frustrating, as I want to know the story.

Every day I have to decide whether to consign a book to oblivion or not. I don't have a problem with that, but somehow I can't bring myself to throw away these fragments of past lives. I can happily throw away a dreary book about King George V because I know that there are plenty of others out there, but these bookmarks might be all that's left of someone's existence.

How Mr O Wells got rich...

From The Strand Magazine, October 1906:

As recommended by Countess Seckendorff of Berlin and Mr Lewis of Pontygwaith. In another advert, an English countess says 'Your Trilene Tablets act admirably.'

How times have changed. Nobody would fall for an advert like that today, would they?

Fab!

It may be very rewarding to discover a first edition of Nicholas Nickleby, but nothing can beat the pleasure of coming across books like this one, which I found this afternoon:

Published in 1967, this book comes from an era when 'swinging' had less sordid connotations.

According to the blurb on the jacket, this book is a "go-go mini-guide to the new swinging London of today, essential to the traveller who wants to taste the delights of a world capital that has kicked off its sensible shoes and traded its tweed for vinyl. The key question is...'Where's the action and how do I get in on it?' Simply fab."

Getting in on the action seems to involves finding the 'scene' and if that sounds as elusive as Tarkovsky's 'zone', you're quite wrong. There's even a map, showing visitors the grooviest boutiques, discotheques, casinos and, rather intriguingly, auction houses:

Beyond its banal exterior, this is actually a well-written and informative guide to London and it gives a fascinating glimpse of a city that was undergoing a huge social transformation. I'm not sure about the author's credentials when it comes to Swinging London though; she looks far too sensible:

Can you see her smoking 'pot' whilst listening to Within You Without You? I can't.

My favourite part of the book is a map of Britain for foreign swingers. It is a masterpiece of economy:

I say Britain, but anywhere north of Liverpool is deemed terra incognita. London is where it's at.

It's interesting how the myth has replaced the reality and to anyone under 50, the term 60s London conjures up a groovy, Austin Powers-style montage of mini skirts and kaftans. However, whenever I watch documentary films from the period, I'm struck by the conservatism of the clothes and the depressed look of many streets, which still bore the scars of the Blitz.

If there was a scene, I'm not surprised that you needed a guidebook to find it.

Work

I'm now in the third week of my new job and although it's exhausting, I'm enjoying every minute. I can't believe that someone is actually paying me to sift through boxes of secondhand books.

The books arrive in plastic totes (when did the word tote appear on the scene? What's wrong with box or crate?) and each one usually has at least one book that is worth selling. In the last ten days I have found first editions of novels by Dickens, Maria Edgeworth, Hemingway and Roald Dahl, plus some really strange textbooks that have turned out to be worth hundreds of pounds. I now have to find the most effective way of selling them.

Discovering what is valuable and what isn't has been a fascinating experience. Why is a first edition of Nevil Shute's On the Beach or TS Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral worthless, whilst a sixth edition of a textbook on radar can fetch £60? I know that the answer is supply and demand and that technical books have small print runs, but surely there is more demand for Eliot?

Perhaps the least popular genre is poetry. I would have expected an 1868 collection of poems by Tennyson to be worth a few quid, but you can buy books like this for a fiver. Even more modern poets don't fare that well, with a first edition of Lawrence Durrell's collected poems selling for around £4.

The Victorians seem to have lovd their poetry, but there was one thing they liked even more: The Pilgrim's Progress. I have never seen so many copies in my life, all of them worthless. They will be recycled into something more useful, as will the numerous book club editions that literally aren't worth the paper they're printed on.

I had been afraid that after a year of leisure I would have trouble reacclimatising myself to the world of work. However, the simple fact is that if a job's interesting and you respect your employer, work can be a pleasure as well as a necessity.

I realise that at some point it may all change, but for the moment I'm enjoying the ride.