A new generation of book buyers seems to be unfamiliar with the venerable custom of marking the price of the book in pencil on the flyleaf. Being asked dozens of times each day “where is the price?” makes a bookseller feel ancient and out of touch, so on an impulse I did something youthful and got the reply tattooed on my neck. It hurt like hell and my sister says I can’t be a bridesmaid at her wedding this summer because of it, but if I never have to answer this question again it was worth the pain and alienation. Like Piaf “je ne regrette rien”, which is good because unlike a pencilled price, this can never be erased!***An update: This was an April Fool’s joke that wildly exceeded its modest goals. I have neither a neck tattoo nor a sister. Happy to have raised awareness about used bookshop pricing conventions! But leave my imaginary uptight sister alone!***