Persephone Books

If I was living my fantasy life, I'd now be settling down in the drawing room after luncheon. Chances are though, if it were really 1929, I would have been serving the luncheon rather than eating it. So it's always good to escape into a book and live the upstairs life of a nice English lady, where housewifely concerns are the potting of winter bulbs and managing cook's moods rather than pounding the perfect hummous and working up a sweat with the Ecover cream cleaner. As a matter of fact, I've been let off any domestic duties today. First-Born is falsed-tanned to a startling shade of tangerine and off out with her friends for the day, Little Boy is on a trip with the grandparents to see some lambs in Wales, Mr Pram is at home keeing a watchful eye over our builders and I am left with The Babe, so have retreated to my parents' city-centre pad, infant in tow, for some wonderfully liberating unscheduled hanging-out time.
Although we have no luncheon, in the proper sense of the word, I manage to put The Babe in the sling and head out into town. She sleeps while I buy a Pret A Manger cheddar and pickle and amble over to the huge Waterstones branch for a browse in their 3-for-2s. And what rich pickings today! Oh joy of joys! There on the display tables is the re-issue of a Dorothy Whipple by Persephone Books. And only £9. I heart, heart, heart Persephone Books. If the literary and the domestic meet anywhere, it is surely inside the pale grey covers of a Persephone Book. Everything about these books scores top marks on my excitement-o-meter. For years, I've been stalking small branch libraries and second-hand bookshops for fading editions of forgotten twentieth-century women writers. Oh the bliss of discovering an Antonia White behind a pile of Harold Robbins, or a Barbara Pym with it's spine cracked, it's pages yellowed and bent, stuffed between a couple of science fictions.



Many times I wondered how much greater a place the world would be if more of these neglected authors' work was available. And then I discovered it was. Not only was there a rich body of women's writing being re-printed, it was being printed in the most beautiful, strokeable, editions. Every Persephone Book has a distinctive grey jacket on a superior paperback frame, and each has its own coloured endpapers and matching bookmark, with prints from old wallpapers and dress fabrics. Each is an object of desire in itself, a tactile, aesthetic delight in addition to the wonderful content. I normally buy mine directly from Persephone via t'internet. I'd love to visit their shop, in London, but sadly never get the chance to nip on the train and spend a couple of hours traipsing from Liberty to Lamb's Conduit Street to Charing Cross Road (possibly my perfect day). But hey, here is a Persephone, in a new, less swanky jacket - a Persephone Classic - staring at me in Waterstones. I grab the book - Someone At A Distance - and head towards the tillpoint.



But on the way, weaving between leather armchairs and 'Booksellers Recommend' stands, something else catches my eye: a whole display dedicated to Virago Modern Classics. Gone are the bottle green covers. These beauties are hardbacks with fabric print jackets. And the one that catches my eye is covered in Cath Kidston roses. More joy - The Diary of a Provincial Lady by EM Delafield - one of the funniest ever books. I already own Provincial Lady, but in a bog-standard paperback issue. What to do, what to do? I am sensible today, and only buy the Whipple. But I'm coming back!