THE ARRANGEMENT OF BOOKS

I've been trying to remember when I first realised books piled at the front of shops aren't necessarily proving hard to sell. For years, I walked past them as fast as I could, head bowed, eyes averted, burning with sympathetic shame for the authors whose books no-one wanted to buy. I felt sad for store managers too, the ones who found themselves with so many of a particular title silting up their shelves that the only way they could shift them and make way for new stock was by ramming them down the necks of undiscerning shoppers looking for a quick gift; or, worse still, by selling them cut price.

It never, ever struck me that publishers might want them to be there, or that authors would be proud.

When John Lanchester's 'Capital' came out, I gazed sadly at the stacks of thick, white-backed books. Such high hopes dashed low. It made me feel a little sick. And my heart gave a thud when passing Julian Barnes 'The Sense of an Ending' at the exit. So many of his books had been left unsold they'd had to make a special cardboard bookcase for them and stick them at an angle to catch your eye as you left the shop. "Buy me!" they cried as customers slithered past, trying not to notice. It was as if we'd come across Prince Harry sitting naked on the pavement, begging.

For many years, I had trouble seeing the point of buying two books and getting an extra one free. Who would want three identical books? Was the idea that you'd enjoy them so much you'd read them over and over and would need a ready replacement for when the first and second wore out? The only time I had any use for these offers was when my children were small and forever going to birthday parties. I'd buy three of a kind, keep one for us and wrap up the others to give away. I can't remember when I found out they could be different titles. A shop assistant told me - not very long ago.

For the most part, my practise in high street shops has been to head straight for the book-order counter or . . . to those awful shelves where books are arranged not by author or title or genre or anything predictable but by sales. I like series. New Ian Rankin book? New Ruth Rendell? For years I would be a customer in waiting. But by the time I had an excuse to buy one - like a holiday or a wait in an outpatients department . . . they'd be arranged in frames so you had to begin at no.1 in order of popularity and work your way through - they could be anywhere.

Until I began to buy online, my book-buying experiences were rarely good ones. I'd arrive at the poetry section, find it moved and find myself demanding of some poor customer browsing romances to tell me where it had gone. On a hunt for paper in a shop where stationary had been muddled with novels, I came across a (non-fiction) section entirely devoted to people who'd had terribly sad lives. I was incredulous. "They're all put together!" I exclaimed excitedly to someone hovering along the shelves. "Can you believe it! Books about sorrow and personal suffering have become a category!" She stared. (I think she might have been planning to buy one once I'd left off ranting and had gone round the corner at the other end of the stand.) I didn't do too well at the whirligig with puzzle books either. "Look," I said to my children. "Look how much you have to pay for these little books with tear-off strips! What a rip-off!" I read a few questions out loud - then had to move out of the way because someone was reaching across us to take one of these very books - and buy it.

I'm still struggling with the concept of promoting books by pretending they're in a jumble sale. I still can't persuade myself to feel comfortable as I pass them buy. I'm glad we can buy on-line. I would have liked to end this post by saying I look forward to the revival of small independent bookshops. I think I had planned it to end that way. But, for all that little shops don't have room for tables, I don't think I specially look forward to their return either. I browse the virtual bookshelves every day. And I enjoy them.

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