Sitting on my director of studies’ office sofa, the immortal words “reading list” echo around the room. The much-feared tragedy paper had reared its head, confronting us with the reality of third year but also the need to understand scraps of Ancient Greek (relating only to theatre, thank goodness, as not even Duolingo has expanded that far– trust me, I’ve checked). However, the universe has gifted me an upside: my local second-hand book shop. Trips to this literary shrine are legendary – Arden editions of Shakespeare for only one pound and a CD collection that is borderline ineffable. If you ask me, no amount of aggressively synthesised Andrew Lloyd Webber is too much. Jesus Christ Superstar played on saxophone will make your spirit soar. I implore you to stop reading this article and listen to the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra’s rendition of ABBA’s greatest hits – a truly transcendent experience.

“If you ask me, no amount of aggressively synthesised Andrew Lloyd Webber is too much”

My shelves are lined with more than truly fantastic CDs, but everything from Julius Caesar to Jennifer Saunders – of equal quality in my personal view. The shop itself is genuinely interesting, housed in an old Methodist chapel, the original church organ is sandwiched between reams of sheet music and classical music anthologies, my favourite acquisition being my full score of The Last Five Years, a veritable steal. Biographies are stacked beneath delicate tapestries, the original methodist adornments remaining. For anyone with an interest in theology, you can happily spend an afternoon exploring the sprawling stacks. Literary risks are taken: at a pound a pop you can plunge into unfamiliar writers or genres, exploring uninhibited by standard budget limitations. I have purchased books I would otherwise pass over, dissuaded by price. Reading them is a different matter, but that has nothing to do with the bookshop and everything to do with my unerringly large reading list and capacity for literary procrastination.

“at a pound a pop you can plunge into unfamiliar writers or genres, exploring uninhibited by standard budget limitations”

Run entirely by volunteers, some of which I am guessing, based on age, are participating in the ubiquitous Duke of Edinburgh volunteering experience, the space has a distinct community feel. In a beautifully circular economy, the profits of the shop are ploughed back into the local museum which explores the history of Methodism, although I must confess, I have been no further than the car park when picking my sister up from her year ten work experience there. As they ring up my tiny total for the tomes I have scooped up, the volunteers enquire about the masses of Shakespeare and bleak Greek, nattering away happily about my degree, what I have to read, offering spades of encouragement, as well as sympathy, at once again having to read Chaucer.

It’s only open a few days a week, for a couple of hours, due to its voluntary existence, so trips have to be pre-orchestrated with complete timing precision. There is always a cup of tea on hand, and I’ve overheard the existence of a ‘mid-life crisis’ section; I’ve had described to me a “very jolly” book someone read about depression, and been helped with scouring shelves for precise editions of Alexander Pope. Peppered with fascinating tales, books, and the volunteer’s thoughts, I am infinitely compelled by the space. It may be the religious foundations, the sweet cheerleading of your literary endeavours by the volunteers, or maybe I just really like ABBA played on bassoons.