Sorry, sir, we only stock books we agree with

I was on my way to the pub the other evening, about seven o’clock, rain lashing down on my head, when I saw that there was a dim, yellowish light on in the bookshop. Peering closer through the downpour I could see five women sitting on a circle of chairs around either a table or a cauldron, talking animatedly to one another. Or perhaps chanting, I don’t know.

I crossed the road and stood directly outside the shop window with my arms outstretched, mouthing at those inside: ‘Where’s my book? Where’s my book?’ Six weeks previously I had wandered into the shop to see if they were stocking The Great Betrayal: they weren’t. And when I asked the lady behind the till she became somewhat evasive. This time, after watching me standing there like a loon in the rain, the same woman came forward and opened the door. ‘I’m sorry, Rod,’ she said, ‘but I don’t stock political books.