I happily, and freely, admit to being a frequent experiencer of (what I like to call) "Book Horn" - that delicious frisson of joy and expectation felt upon encountering a book that seems to have been conceptualised and written specifically with oneself in mind.

"We" currently live in something of a "journalistic" world - where trite, glib and shallow engagements with this, that and (indeed) the other are part of our daily diet. One alternative to this unsatisfying repast can be found in the rich meatiness of academic discourse - but even (or, perhaps, particularly) there one often finds a subject close to one's heart being strangled and suffocated by inhibition, excessive discipline, and regurgitation.

Only occasionally (and these are magic moments) does one come across a volume that seems to retain all that is good (and there is much) of academia, while capturing the sensual exhilaration of direct contact with a cherished subject, object, or area.

I recently had a particularly tumescent case of "Book horn" when becoming aware of The Perfect Medium: Photography and the Occult (eds. Clement Cheroux, Andreas Fischer, et al) - a (prohibitively expensive) volume featuring images and essays from the exhibition of the same name held in New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art in late 2005.

I've always found Victorian spirit photographs beautiful, comical and moving all at once so it was with a heavy heart that I heeded my inner "adult" voice and decided to postpone purchase of this gorgeous item. This postponement lasted all of 5 minutes - at which point my book lust triumphantly overcame any sober analysis of my finances. The end result is that The Perfect Medium now sits groaning on my shelves (and a magnificent collection it undoubtedly is). I feel sated and will sleep well till the next drool-inducing volume pops up.

Or maybe not…for I'm growing increasingly concerned about my cat Buster and his feline ability to (apparently) see the otherworld.

Very often, as I sit composing a post for this here blog (or its alien brother), Buster will lie on the desk or mouse mat and gaze with affection at my chin. This routine usually also involves the little fella rubbing his head into my face or pawing my mouth. It's more pleasant than it sounds.

So far, so innocuous. The heebie-jeebies only start motoring when he stares intently (as he frequently does) up and over my shoulder into the space above the door to the study. Though his attention span is otherwise amusingly short, he can often sit (fascinated and entranced) like this for a good 15 minutes or so.

As you'll probably be unsurprised to learn, I find it impossible to stop myself glancing nervously into said space at regular intervals. I've yet to see anything spectral with my modern, human eyes, but (inspired by The Perfect Medium) I decided to take some quick snaps tonight (in an attempt to catch the otherworld unawares).

The results are both unrevealing…

…and inconclusive…

"Perfect medium" my ass…