It’s a funny old time for books, as yesterday’s World Book Day highlighted.

I took a walk around Bradford city centre at lunch-time and came away somewhat dismayed at the few opportunities to actually buy books that exist.

Waterstone’s, of course, remains the jewel in the crown, and though the chain has its detractors who complain of a perceived supermarket mentality towards selling books, I’ve always found the Waterstone’s at the Wool Exchange to be a comforting place, with knowledgeable, friendly staff and a good stock of gems among the obligatory stacks of 3-for-2 bestsellers.

Other than that... well, there’s WH Smith, of course, but I think they’d be first to admit they’re in the pile ’em high and sell ’em cheap market, and the books side of the business is largely overshadowed by the magazines, greetings cards and DVDs.

What Bradford is really lacking is a good smattering of second-hand bookshops. The guardian of this particular flame is Saltaire Books, which sells a mixture of new and used volumes, but unless you’re over that neck of the woods you might not have come across it, which is a shame because as an independent bookshop it deserves to be supported in these dark economic times.

You can always chance across a good find in some of the charity shops, but you need a good eye and lots of time to browse through randomly-piled stock.

I really miss having a good second-hand bookshop on my doorstep, the sort of place where you can spend hours just flicking through the volumes in the hope of turning up just the book you’re looking for.

George Orwell once wrote an essay about his perfect pub, which he called The Moon Under Water. I’d like to imagine my perfect bookshop, and it looks a little like this... There are windows fronting on to the street, and they’re not quite as clean as they could be. There might be a couple of desiccated fly corpses on the inside sill. There won’t be fancy window displays with corporate cut-outs and ads, but rather a tasteful presentation (changed when the owner fancies it) devoted to a particular author or type of book... one week it might be books about the countryside, the next the works of PG Wodehouse.

There will be bookcases outside with battered old paperbacks, three for a pound. When you go inside, it will be dark and musty, and piled high from floor to ceiling with random volumes. There will be some attempt at order, perhaps A-Z authors here, science fiction there, crime elsewhere, but the joy will be in rooting through piles of books the owner has not yet sorted through, in which you will turn up a delight you weren’t expecting.

There will be a cellar, and an upstairs, and coffee and cakes in one corner.

If anyone fancies opening this place, you can count on me as a customer.