There is something comforting about old books – books written decades ago, before twitter, mobile phones, or the twenty-four hour news cycle. I’m not old – not, really – but I have never lived in a world without telephones or television. Yet that world – the one depicted in stories before my time - feels oddly familiar. Somehow it all resonates: the hats and the diamond pins, the kid gloves and the afternoon tea, the handwritten letters on embossed writing paper and the swishing skirts. Maybe because I grew up devouring Agatha Christie murder mysteries – and when I had read them all, I went back to the beginning and read them once again. Or maybe I have some sort of a spiritual connection with that era - from another life that I no longer remember, but recognise intuitively on some level of my subconscious. But there is something about that world - the glamorous thirties, forties and fifties – that feels inexplicably nostalgic and deeply soothing.