I’LL admit I was surprised; a young, attractive woman, perusing the Mills and Books books section in the Westgate library. I’d always thought they were for white haired little ladies, getting their kicks from New Mechanic on The Block, Cruise Ship Shame and The Lonely Gynaecologist. But she certainly didn’t fit this profile.

So much so, in fact, that when she did wander away, I felt compelled to sidle up to the shelves and start browsing. After all, what fascination could they possibly hold for someone who would clearly never be classed as a ‘wallflower’? And, to cut a long story short, I got hooked.

In fact, I challenge anyone to walk away from a plot which involves an orphan (now 32 and still single); a remote Cornish farming community; an outbreak of foot-and-mouth; and a young, moody veterinarian.

It’s almost impossible to put down.

And like everything that’s bad for you, they’re curiously addictive.

A few years back I got similarly addicted to watching religious broadcasting on satellite TV. That of course was car-crash bad, with its face-lifted pastors spouting charity and their latest seven-step guide to blissful eternity (mail order only).

Mills and Boon isn’t that: its books are harmless, quaint, and innocent. And clearly they entertain a great many people. But there is a similar attraction of sorts – they’re both pantomime; M&B is Cinderella, Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, and Princess Jasmine in Aladdin; the Bible channels are Captain Hook, the Stepmother in Cinderella and Abanazer.

Over the past few days, I’ve actually read two M&Bs, and felt gripped by both.

I paid cash for them, wore sunglasses, and afterwards, put both through the shredder.

And I was genuinely transported away. No Whitbread Book Award winners sure (and thank God too) but like those Famous Five stories, except with panting, pouting and lingering wet kisses.

Fortunately, I don’t feel my masculinity has been challenged by reading these books. I don’t find their stories romantic; just intriguing.

I like the way the characters are drawn, and the plots? They’re great. The young student nurse, having escaped a life of drudgery in some dark northern town, suddenly finds herself in London, irresistibly drawn to a lonely and sad junior doctor, whose parents recently died while snorkelling in the Maldives.

She sees him, he sees her, he ignores her, she teases him, he warms to her, she opens up, he suddenly turns cold and aloof, she moves away distraught.

Then, finally, in the last chapter, he turns up unexpectedly, tells her about his suspected brain tumour that’s now been given the all-clear, and they gaze longingly into the fiery sunset, happy ever after.

It happens. In fact, the above story, save for a few minor plot points (he was a civil servant and she was a cashier, and he thought he had asthma and didn’t) happened to a couple of friends of mine and they’re still very much in love. Admittedly, with different partners, but that’s not the point.

So where do I go from here? Tough one that. But I’ve got my eye on a Barbara Cartland or two.