My home city of Oxford has been ravaged by shop closures over the past decade but there is still one outstanding second-hand bookshop (the estimable antiquarian department at Blackwell’s apart) and it’s the Oxfam bookshop on St Giles. Thanks to a regular donations from dons and writers, there are invariably high-quality and interesting items on its shelves, priced sensibly and reasonably. In the past, I reckon I’ve spent a decent three-figure sum there most months, which I persuaded myself was going to developing countries and their good work, rather than growing my unreasonably large collection.
Yet I’ve rather fallen out of love with the Oxfam St Giles ever since it did something unexpected a couple of months ago: it stopped me buying books.
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