I often dream about bookshops. They're always rambling old places- clearly modelled on Hall's Bookshop in Tunbridge Wells which I used to visit on Saturday mornings in my teens. The whole family would drive into town, my sister would be taken off to have clothes bought for her at one of the big department stores on the hill and I'd go downhill to Hall's and browse through the shelves for however long I had. Last time I checked the shop was still there, still looking as though it has changed nothing but its stock since Jane Austen's day. Hall's has two floors but the shops in my dreams have an indefinite number and if I haven't found what I want I just head for the next flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. Mind you, in dreams I never do find what I'm looking for and the thrill is entirely in the browsing not the purchase. In real life I bought lots of splendid things- some of which I still have.