For nearly 18 months I have been in and out of one of the local second hand book shops. As much as I love poking around shops like this, I always feel slightly intimidated by the people in them. What if they ask me what books I like and I say something as mainstream as James Clavell or, god forbid, Dan Brown? I feel like I should be able to real off Dickens novels like I can cricket scores from 20 years ago. I would like to be able to understand just a little bit of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I would even like to have the talent to carry on like a pretentious wanker and quote great swathes of Shakespeare. Alas, I am but a simple fool, and Mr Clavell does it for me. Emerson may as well speak Latin, and Shakespeare puts me in a brown mood, mainly due to having it force fed to us at school. My point is, second hand book shops make me nervous.

So what the hell has this got to do with photography I hear you ask dear reader? Well, in a blinding flash whilst I waited for a work mates crumbed fish too cook, I realised there might be some treasure in them there shelves. Old photography books. Before I knew the feet were in motion and I was striding with all the confidence of a cat at Crufts into the book shop for a bit of a gander.

After wandering around and being frustrated by the lack of any sort of categorisation or signage, I relented and asked the middle aged lady behind the counter, who was just about to finish her game of Solitaire.

“Red ten onto the black jack and you are home love.” I advised, only to get a look that made me feel like I should have come armed with a quote from Eddie Allan Poe poem.

“Can I assist you?” she asked. I told her I was looking for any books they might have related to photography. “In the photography section.” she replied.

“Oh right, the photography section, the one with the huge flashing sign that say Photography Section above it?” This wasn’t going well.

She smiled, “Ah yes, sorry, just on that shelf to my right, your left. 3rd shelf up. Left hand side.” She then put the red ten on the black  jack and finished her game.

I waddled off to where I was directed and there it was, a small collection of fantastic old photography books. I started pulling books out, looking at the covers, and the photos inside. Fantastic. I lost track of time. I know I was looking through a book I recognised from home when I could smell fish and chips. Time to go.

On the way out, I thanked the lady, and advised her the red 6 could go onto the black 7. Another smile and a “see you again” and I was off.

She was right, she will see me again.