One of my secret wishes is to open a bookstore – I even have the name chosen. I eye every empty piece of retail space as a potential spot for my bookstore. I entertain dusty daydreams of sitting in the store with stacks of books at my side waiting to go on the shelves, breathing in that heady new book scent, which mingles in an almost aphrodisiac manner with the delightful , somehow secret aroma of old books. I have shelves upon shelves of both new and old books. And a coffee machine, plate of freshly baked muffins and a couple of those old leather club chairs – for a little reading time, when a book plucked off the shelf grabs you and it’s all you can do to back your way into a handy seat, eyes riveted on the page. It’s a fairly aesthetic space, my little book store. Polished wooden floorboards, shadowed corners with an ambient slice of sunbeam shining on a well placed Victorian candlestick and a beautifully bound volume of romantic poems. Another shelf holds a vintage typewriter, another a case displaying various writing instruments – everywhere you turn a tribute to the art of writing and reading. And books. Lots of books. I might even be able to bear parting with some.