Consider me appalled. Appalled and saddened.

I went into town today to buy a birthday gift for my mother, and as I wandered aimless and increasingly frantic, as you do on such missions, I passed my local W H Smith - which, in case you don’t know, used to be a newsagent. It’s now more like a bad mix of bookshop, newsagents, stationers, coffee shop, music shop and games emporium for kids of all ages, but it’s with the bookshop part I am concerned right now. And concerned is a bloody good word for what I am.

I thought I might see if there was a book or two my dear old Mum might like, and as I browsed the shelves I came across something which stopped me dead in my tracks.

Imagine, if you will, a section of tall dividing units supporting bookshelves. Now imagine that the two sub-sections of shelving in front of your disbelieving eyes are labelled ‘Tragic Life Stories’. Yes, dear reader, that is indeed the sight which saddened and appalled me this afternoon. I’m notoriously bad at estimating distance, so I took a picture. It’s pretty much the entire content of the picture above, and as you see, it’s crammed with an assortment of paperbacks - 90% of which had titles like ‘Please, Daddy, No!’ and ‘A Cry in the Dark’ and ‘Damaged’. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that these books all spew out, for the entertainment of the reader, the graphic details of abusive childhoods.

What is it with all this? Why do people want to read, over and over again, these nasty little tales? If the covers are to be believed, these are all true stories, but I’m afraid I’m too cynical to believe it. I did read one once, and found myself by turns dismayed, outraged, desperately sympathetic and finally, disgusted. Not disgusted because of the things that happened to the poor child, but disgusted because the tale, whatever its basis in fact, had been exaggerated and sensationalised to the point where it lost credibility. I stopped reading when I found myself thinking for the third time ‘but that child would be dead if that had really happened!’ And yes, I do have some medical experience, so it’s not just ‘turning a blind eye’ or trying to make myself feel better.

I don’t doubt that some of the books are indeed true accounts. I don’t even doubt that some of the things in the dramatised/fictional accounts are true. I don’t doubt that it is cathartic to write about it if you are a victim of such abominations, but that is not why those books are there, or why the section is so large. No, the only reason those books are there is to cater for a voyeuristic public interest in reading the sordid details. And that is what I find most disturbing. It says something about society, don’t you think?

The other 10%, by the way, were ‘adult interest’ Tragic Life Stories. For example, there was a whole little series of ‘Belle de Jour, the Adventures of a London Call Girl’. Top shelf stuff that. I couldn’t even reach it.

And no, I didn’t buy one for Mum.