M

As a child, I often stopped at 'M'.  It was dead ahead of you, right after handing in last week's books.  And so de Maupassant, Somerset Maugham, Alistair Maclean, Ed McBain all came to be read.  It was before Alexander McCall Smith's time, or I'm sure I'd have tested him out, and I was a little young for Ian McEwan.

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It all came back, even that stuffy but welcome library smell, when I paid my 33p for Ed McBain's Money, Money, Money, published 2001, a copy withdrawn from Haringey's library stock somewhere between then and now (his detectives always did call a spade a spade - and that can get you in some seriously hot water in Haringey).  

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One loyal reader reports her laptop freezing whenever she tries visiting.  Anyone else?  Trust I'm not responsible. xx