I’m so startled, my pen jerks off my notebook and, to my horror, makes a blue line, straight across a photograph of perfectly cooked basmati rice. Quickly I shift my hand, almost covering up the mark, and turn round innocently. A man in a white shirt and a name badge is looking at me disapprovingly.

“This isn’t a public library, you know,” he says.

“I’m just browsing,” I say hurriedly, and make to close the book. But the man’s finger comes out of nowhere and lands on the page before I can get it shut. Slowly he opens the book out again and we both stare at my blue Biro line.

“Browsing is one thing,” says the man sternly. “Defacing shop stock is another.”

“It was an accident!” I say. “You startled me!”

“Hmm,” says the man, and gives me a hard stare. “Were you actually intending to buy this book? Or any book?”

There’s a pause—then, rather shamefacedly, I say, “No.”

“I see,” says the man, tightening his lips. “Well, I’m afraid this matter will have to go to the manager. Obviously, we can’t sell this book now, so it’s our loss. If you could come with me and explain to her exactly what you were doing when the defacement occurred . . .”

Is he serious? Isn’t he just going to tell me kindly that it doesn’t matter and would I like a loyalty card? My heart starts to thud in panic. What am I going to do? Obviously, I can’t buy the book, under my new frugal regime. But I don’t want to go and see the manager, either.

“Lynn?” the man’s calling to an assistant at the pen counter. “Could you page Glenys for me, please?”

He really is serious. He’s looking all pleased with himself, as though he’s caught a shoplifter. Can they prosecute you for making Biro marks in books? Maybe it counts as vandalism. I’ll have a criminal record. I won’t ever be able to go to America.

“Look, I’ll buy it, okay?” I say breathlessly. “I’ll buy the bloody book.” I wrench it from the man’s grasp and hurry off to the checkout before he can say anything else.

Standing at the next checkout is the old woman in the blue coat, and she calls triumphantly, “I took your advice! I’ve got her one of those traveling books. I think she’ll really like it!”

“Oh good,” I reply, handing my recipe book over to be scanned.

“It’s called The Rough Guide to India,” says the old woman, showing me the fat blue paperback. “Have you heard of it?”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, yes, but—”

“That’s £24.99, please,” says the girl at my till.

What? I look at the girl in dismay. Twenty-five quid, just for recipes? Why couldn’t I have picked up some cheap paperback? Damn. Damn. Very reluctantly, I take out my credit card and hand it over. Shopping is one thing, being forced into purchases against your will is something else. I mean, I could have bought some nice underwear with that twenty-five quid.