LADYBIRD books are the chocolate and The Beatles of the literary world. Everybody likes them.

I like them so much that, last week, I made a special trip to Reading to see an exhibition about them.

It’s at the Museum of English Rural Life, which is part of the University of Reading, home of the Ladybird Book historical archive.

Entry is free, but they have missed a trick because they could generate a lot of money - and why not do it for charity? - by installing a kind of swear box, into which you would be obliged to put in a pound, every time you point at one of the books and say: “We had that one.”

Believe me, you can’t stop yourself.

It would also act as a kind of tax on people who were spoilt rotten when they were growing up.

Far be it from me to put my wife in that category (especially as today is her birthday), but in the end I had to tell her to stop pointing out which Ladybird books she had when she was a girl, because the score was over 20.

I suppose I should have expected as much from someone who not only had Buckaroo, Kerplunk and Hungry Hungry Hippos to play with, but even Mouse Trap.

This was at a time that me and my twin brother had to share Subbuteo on a home-made pitch, with nine players on each side and goals held together with Sellotape.

It was the same story with the Ladybird books because we only had three: The Story of Football, The Story of Cricket and Nursery Rhymes.

Although we were sport crazy, it was the Nursery Rhymes one that I remember most vividly, because I was absolutely captivated by the artwork, which is always so accomplished in Ladybird books.

What really intrigues me about them is how simply drawn they are, giving the impression that if you tried to paint those pictures yourself, you could, when the reality is you have to be gifted to be able to produce something that looks so easy.

I should add that the bad news about the Ladybird exhibition in Reading is it is tiny and, to be honest, not worth a special trip. But the good news is the museum it is housed in is a real gem, and a visit is two or three hours well spent.

While we were looking at the books, it struck me that my own and my wife’s overall nostalgia for the books were more or less equal, but because hers was spread over more than 20 books, while mine was spread over just three, book for book it was a far more sentimental trip for me than it was for her.

And it occurred to me that that may be why I am so nostalgic for things and obsessed with owning objects (usually of little market value), and treasured them so much when I was younger.

What we had was mostly governed by what our parents could afford, and while we didn’t go without, I now think I benefited from not having too much.

Then again, my wife may have had far more toys and books that me, but she hasn’t turned out too bad such a bad old stick in the long run.

So it would be tempting to spoil her on her birthday, but she has already treated herself to a new coat and is insisting I don’t get her anything too expensive to go with it.

I wish she had told me this before I bought her those Ladybird fridge magnets in the museum shop.