Yesterday I climbed a towering stack of books at the V&A. I have no head for heights and it swayed as others clumped behind me. (Only four at a time allowed.)

It is called Ark and I felt a bit seasick. No way would I have climbed to the top if I hadn't been drawn to browse all those wonderful books on the shelves.

Other people were examining fine carpentry joints and sighing over the craftsmanship. Yeah, whatever ... although it did help to reassure me that the whole stack wouldn't come tumbling down. Like those avalanches that sometimes happen when to-be-read piles teeter and ... whoops, topple over.

I'm sure it's significant that this giant bookcase is in the stairwell of the V&A library. I'm sure that I was supposed to be pondering something about knowledge and how it passes down the centuries.

But there was a quiet niche at the top with a cushion to sit on ... I forgot about feeling sick.

I forgot about Architecture. I wondered where the V&A had found those hundreds of old paperbacks.

And I stayed up there for the rest of the afternoon.

Lost in a bookcase.