‘Would you mind if I asked what your book is?’
She was in her late-thirties, with dark hair and a serious demeanour. Her reply to my question took a few seconds to appear, the short period in which a woman assesses whether the man sitting opposite her in a not-very-busy Tube carriage in the middle of the afternoon is or is not a weirdo. ‘Er … why?’ The words revealed a Spanish accent. They were delivered perfectly politely.
‘It’s just that I haven’t seen a book covered like that in ages.’ Since I was at school, in fact. The brown paper, which Ms Jubilee Line had folded into exquisite hospital corners and sellotaped neatly, was thick enough to completely obscure title, author’s name, cover illustration, the lot. Though it still wasn’t quite as thick as the wallpaper with which many of our parents protected maths and physics textbooks.
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