I used to frequent a second hand bookshop at the bottom of Gloucester Road in London, opposite the Texas Lone Star. It had a basement you could browse in for hours without feeling you were being watched and an impressive selection of hardbacks for a pound or two. When I was hard up I sold them my collection of Raymond Chandler novels for six pounds.

Years later, I turned to the chains of charity shops that haunt the high streets of England for my cheap literary fixes. They were a poor man’s paradise: a strange mix of clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, prehistoric vinyl and fitness videos, and a single bookcase of paperbacks mixed in with biographies of celebrity chefs - typical unwanted Christmas presents.

The average English high street plays host to a range of second hand shops, from Cancer Research and Oxfam to strange charities for Romanian orphans. Tucked away at the back of each one of these shops, out of sight in the farthest corner, sits a lone bookcase. At first glance the offerings appear unimpressive: a shelf or two of chick lit with shiny covers, bodice rippers you’d like to check out only you’re too embarrassed, and the batch of obligatory favourite authors. It is a truth universally acknowledged that every charity shop in England must carry at least one volume of Frank McCourt’s autobiography, no less than five Patricia Cornwall novels about decaying corpses, and a single copy of the last book you paid full price for.

Many a man falls at this hurdle, convinced that there is nothing here for him, but the more experienced shopper realises that once the dross is peeled away, there is always one gem to be found cunningly concealed on the bottom shelf. Last week’s high street expedition yielded three impressive titles for under four pounds: Isabel Allende’s Daughter of Fortune, The Colour by Rose Tremain, and Fergal Keane’s Letter to Daniel. Each of these I could happily have bought from Amazon on one of my late night shopping sprees. Toss a little alcohol into the mix and I might even have persuaded myself that those bodice rippers were a good idea - purely in the interests of research, of course.

When I started making real money about five years ago, I abandoned the charity circuit in favour of glossy new books delivered in cardboard boxes. I came up with all sorts of reasons at the time as to why it was the thing to do, never realising the danger I was putting myself in. Thankfully I saw the error of my ways before it became terminal and I ended up shopping at Ikea every Sunday.

If you’ve yet to sample the cheap and cheerful end of the high street, here’s a few tips you should remember:

1. Avoid Oxfam - they’re ridiculously overpriced, having been known to charge more than one pound fifty for a single paperback.
2. Don’t buy a book unless you’d consider buying it new. The sexy prices can temp the unwary to shell out for something you know you’re never going to read.
3. Give up any crazy ideas you may have of finding a first edition Gutenberg Bible. They may look old and grey in these shops, but they’ve wised up to the hidden treasures that pop up during house clearances.
4. Try to look impoverished or in desperate need of a good read. The old woman behind the counter may take pity on you and give up the book for twenty pence.

Happy hunting.