The Dangers of Reading Books

And so, because we like books and CDs and DVDs and stuff so much, we ended up in the market for a new bookcase, to go with the five other bookcases. And the sideboard. And the book room which is full of shelves and books and shelves and more books. Books.

Budget being a factor, our search is concentrated on Gumtree, online tat market Ebay, local skips and hedgerows until Jane makes an important discovery.

"There's a charity shop in Basingstoke that deals only in used furniture. We should go there."

Agreeing that, yes, we should go there, we go there and find our dream charity shop bookcase for which offers are invited.

But first, the crucial question: "Has anybody died in this bookcase?"

After all, this is an acceptable enough question to ask when buying charity shop clothes, so why not ask if some poor sap has been killed to DEATH by a topppling set of encyclopedias whilst reaching for a copy of Fiesta hidden on the top shelf?

"Well?" I ask, pointing to a suspicious-looking blood stain, clump of hair, and the remains of the diary of a man trapped under a bookcase for six weeks called "Diary of a Man Trapped Under a Bookcase", his last words being "I can't even pull my trousers up."

We leave empty-handed.