What began as a cost-cutting measure has now become an expensive obsession. Like the gambling addict who recently tried to get himself banned from the bookie’s, I had banned myself from going in to Waterstone’s, afraid of its endless three-for-two offers that have left me with shelves of unread books and a bill for several thousand pounds for getting bookshelves built.

But I needed something to read, it was ages till pay day, and there I was at my parents’ house. Re-reading Mum’s books ticked the boxes: recycling, zero carbon footprint, nostalgia and, best of all, free. And there they were: These Old Shades and Black Sheep by Georgette Heyer. I recalled a colleague saying he’d recently rediscovered her, to the detriment of his social life because he couldn’t put the damn things down. I should have taken the warning.

Instead, I started to read. Lord above, as one of her spirited heroines might say, such a treat. What, pray, is there not to like about sentences such as, “I shall purchase a muff for March. Of miniver, I think.” Or, “Sir Roland achieved a beautiful leg. ‘Your ladyship’s most obedient!’ he said.”

In Heyerland there are curricles and phaetons, Corinthians and pinks of the ton. Cravats have names and breeches are of biscuit-coloured buckskin. There are wayward wards, haughty Lords and snobbish Mamas. It is pure literary crack.

So that was the good news: two marvellous books to read, no money spent. The bad news was that there were only two. There used to be dozens but somewhere along the line they’d dis-appeared, which was where my new discovery became expensive. Heyer wrote 41 historical romances, which Arrow Books sells in paperback at £7.99 a pop, and they’re not in the three-for-two section. True, I can get them from Amazon for quite a bit less, and there is the compelling argument that money spent on the internet isn’t real money at all, but whichever way you cut it I’ve still spent an awful lot on books that glory in titles such as Regency Buck, Cotillion and My Lord John (though I found the latter oddly difficult, possibly on account of it being concerned more with medieval history than masquerade balls at Vauxhall Gardens).

Then there is the fact that where once I occasionally read proper books – books that made me think – now my head is filled with dialogue about excessively provoking baronets and sprig-muslin poke-bonnets. “There was a suggestion of devil-may-care about him,” reads one line in Black Sheep, “and those deeply-carven lines in his lean countenance might well (she supposed) betray dissipation.” Marvellous stuff.

So I am now officially stupid, and poor. On the plus side, I’ve still got about 35 Georgettes to read. But I think I’m going to have to join a library.

bargainhunter@thetimes.co.uk