Orphanage for poetry

To the Amnesty Bookshop on King Street, a marvellous place under threat of closure as the charity retreats from retail. I love it here: sorting through boxes of donations is the biggest joy. Today's haul included a couple of ancient Baedeker guides to the Riviera, some gay manga & evidence of a serious 1950s train-spotting habit. There was also a love letter which my colleague, infinitely less nosy than me, binned when he realised it must be "private".

I avoided an undignified scene (diving into bin etc) by rearranging the poetry section & putting some Faber classic covers - Ted Hughes, James Joyce - on display, upping their price from a ludicrous £1 to a marginally less ludicrous £4.

The whole performance is aversion therapy: an earlier book-addicted me would have bought them, but now I can walk past (almost) without flinching. And I manage to donate books every time I work at the shop. The Maureen McLane is/was mine. I hope they all find the right owners. Maybe this chap?