Today I came across a rich seam of John Wyndham novels tucked away in an old wooden fruit box underneath one of the shelves. Eight classics of British sci-fi, just sitting there. It doesn’t happen very often, but just occasionally my reading tastes align with those of a deceased science-fiction compatriot whose collection of books isn’t recognised for its true value by their relatives, and the stack of books is dumped at the second hand book shop. I call those days, “Pay Day”.