Whilst emptying yet another box of my books from my parents loft, I came across a book which reminded me of a particularly odd coincidence.
When I was but a callow youth, I bought lots of the "true" ghost story type books, as well as many compendiums, usually edited by Colin Wilson.
To ensure no one ever thought of nicking them, I always wrote my name in the back cover.
No, I don't know who'd want to nick them, either.
Anyway, one of these books was "Spinechiller" by Peter and Mary Harrison (quick review: entertaining, but obviously bobbins).
When it was time for me to go to university, I disposed of these childish things to a jumble sale, so I could move on to the mature pursuits of cider and girls.
Now, I should point out here, that said jumble sale is in Leeds.
Some years later, when I realised that both cider and girls had their own drawbacks, I found myself in London, killing time before my trip back to the frozen north.
I happened upon a second hand bookshop, and realising I had nothing to keep me entertained on the train, I searched for suitable inspiration.
What should I spy but a copy of said Spinechiller.
After paying a significant sum for what was a tatty old tome, I relaxed into my train seat.
Somewhere around Doncaster I finished and came to the back cover where... you've guessed it, my name is scrawled.
Somehow the book had a journey of a couple of hundred miles, and ten years, just to come back into my possession.
Spooky, huh...?