In the packaging cupboard, I find a smart shoe box in whichI can pack the collection of stationery I have bought for grand-daughter Giselle's birthday. The boxes of pencils and notes and the journal with a magnetic clasp fit perfectly; the box might have been made for the purpose.
For some time I have been meaning to read Effi Briest by the 19th Century German novelist TheodorFontane. Today, there it is in the Oxfam book shop in Chapel Place - a black-spined Penguin Classic edition in good condition, perfect for holiday reading.
Am I intelligent? No. But I am intelligent enough to know that I am not.