My library is filled with mysteries and I managed to solve one of them this week. No, I still don’t know who is defacing our romance novels with red dots and red love hearts and no, I haven’t the foggiest idea how Bob is moving around the library at night. Deep down I’m hoping he’s a magical teddy bear who comes alive at night and plays on the bookcases.

I haven’t managed to find a solution to Gerry Daly’s incessant phone calls before history group meetings either, to my ongoing despair and of course, the printer’s secrets are still far beyond me. Sometimes it chooses to co-operate, other times it does its own thing and leaves me tearing out my hair at the roots.

The mystery I solved this week, like Hercule Poirot in an Agatha Christie whodunnit, only without the...

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