The London Book Fair is a hypersocial time for me. Lots of people to catch up with, meetings all day. Trade-fair wayfinding, balancing directory, map, briefcase and much-needed coffee. Hectic and fun. But every year, after the first day, when jetlag starts to press down, between the fair meetings and the dinner meeting, I need a pub and a book and an hour or two of quiet. Except now, as I sit down to a pint of Shepherd Neame’s finest, I find myself pulling out the Reader in a crowded bar off Charing Cross Road.

I feel like a dork.

Have you ever rented a cottage or stayed in an inn or hostel where owners and past guests have left books on the shelves for your reading pleasure? It is usually a mixed bag of thrillers, mysteries, romance novels, maybe some history, sometimes some real wildcards and surprises. You don’t have a lot of choice, but you do get this strange snapshot of what people read when they’re on vacation.

Getting books for the Reader at the Sony Connect store had a similar feeling.