It didn't help that when I pounced on it in the library last week, it wasn't the elegant grey Persephone edition, it was an Old Lady's Library Book. Large print. From the family saga shelf.
Look at that cover. It even had a geriatric effect on Miss Buncle herself. Her age isn't specified in the book, but - as her old nanny is still her housemaid - my guess is that she's one of those literary spinsters still in their mid to late-30s. And here she is looking 65 if she's a day, in her mauve knitted-jersey suit and her pussy-cat bow.
I know, I know, it's still the same book. But I picked this up feeling like I should be resting my varicose veins on the pouffe and enjoying a cup of Complan on the side.
And I'm not ready for that. Not yet.
I'd been hoping that Miss Buncle - who writes a novel about her neighbours to supplement her dwindling income - would be a spinster with the pzazz of Miss Pettigrew.
But this is one of those 'gently-humorous' tales of sleepy English village life that lead me into temptation to stand up at the WI and tell raucously dirty jokes. (I wouldn't. Of course, I wouldn't. I can never remember the punchline of a joke.)
Or rev my motorbike outside the Vicarage.
Or put out my binbags on the wrong day.
Miss Buncle's Book is a Nice Library Book.
For nicer ladies than me.