I suspect that those of us of a mildly hoarder-ish persuasion all secretly believe that we’re going to have an Antiques Roadshow moment, when something we’ve held on to, that isn’t one of several hundred branded tote bags, turns out to have been truly worth keeping. Bookish types have had a bumper week of evidence that this discovery fantasy may one day come true.

A handful of poems written by Daphne du Maurier – two previously unknown – have been found in an archive of letters and the unknown ones hidden behind a photograph of the author in a swimming costume. It is believed they have lain untouched for 90 years.

Experts say that their literary value is negligible – Song of the Happy Prostitute, in particular, sounds like it has dropped off the tracklisting for Madame X, the concept album Madonna has just announced – but it is not so much the content of these poems as the find itself. It is an Indiana Jones moment for book nerds, a rare and exciting thrill.

Meanwhile, the Antiques Roadshow itself has provided one of its genuine save-it-until-the-end-of-the-episode reveals, as reports appeared of a woman in north Wales bringing in a ring she had found in her attic, only to discover some of Charlotte Brontë’s hair braided inside it. My attic has a carrier bag full of Christmas decorations and several posters that survive only because I’ve been saying I’ll get them framed for a number of years, so I am doubly impressed at the quality of this particular treasure. Without the hair, the ring would have been worth £25; its new, hirsute value is £20,000. Perhaps it can join one of the more macabre artefacts on display at the Brontë parsonage in Haworth: Anne’s handkerchief, stained with blood.

I get most of my books from charity shops, and one of the fringe benefits is the chance that you will find an inscription or a token abandoned inside that tells a story as good as the book itself. I have found train tickets and cinema tickets from cities around the world, signs that books have travelled, and markers of where they have been. And once, in a now-lost secondhand copy of Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City, I saw written in the front a list of signatures, practised with ever-increasing swirls and flourishes, an identity being formed on the page.

These sorts of discoveries do not have the drama of the Brontë or Du Maurier finds, but they are, in their own small way, magical, too.

Robyn, inspiring utter joy in 10,000 people at once

It takes a lot to unite any social media feed. Extinction Rebellion’s shutdown actions have turned Facebook into an even snippier he-said-she-said place than usual; Game of Thrones’ return came down to bickering over whether the episode’s ending was frightening or risible.

But last weekend everyone in my bubble seemed to coalesce into a homogenous mass under one name: Robyn. The singer ended her Honey tour with two shows in London, at Alexandra Palace, playing each night to 10,000 people. Instagram, ever an echo chamber, made it seem as if everyone in the world was there.

Perhaps they should have been, because it was so joyful that it could have lifted the spirits of anyone, even someone who has just gone too far down the rabbit hole of arguments about climate change. While that spectacle was due to the extraordinary performance of the woman on stage, who conducted the emotions of the room like her own personal orchestra, it also came from the crowd, who were so willing to be taken where she wanted them to go.

One moment from the show has travelled around the internet, following the tour. During Dancing on My Own, the music cut out, and every one of them sang the words, unaccompanied, back at Robyn, who looked stunned and happy. As phones lit up the room, I understood the desire to capture that moment and bottle it. It felt like some sort of communion.

Plus, everyone was dancing, not on their own but as a 10,000-strong entity. I have got used to relatively static crowds at London gigs, where approval is indicated by a polite clap and a nod. And it felt so good to move with everyone, to dance, and to feel so completely carefree.

Kim Kardashian: everything and kitchen sink

Trainee lawyer Kim Kardashian West has hit back at her critics, who somehow felt moved enough to conjure up strong feelings on her career change, suggesting that money and privilege will make her successful, as if this is news to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of how the world works.

As she explained, she has been told by some that she should “stay in her lane”. “I want people to understand that there is nothing that should limit your pursuit of your dreams, and the accomplishment of new goals. You can create your own lanes, just as I am,” she wrote on Instagram.

Which is all very well and good, but I do feel that like burying bad news by releasing it on a bank holiday, people have been guided away from the bigger picture, which is that Kardashian’s kitchen sinks are really weird. During anher appearance on Vogue’s 73 Questions, astute viewers noticed that her sinks appeared to lack a basin. Again, she was forced to hit back, and she filmed the sinks in close up, showing that there is a slot in the surface for the water to drain away. But is a sink a sink, if it is not sunken? Perhaps that conundrum will be in her upcoming exams.

• Rebecca Nicholson is an Observer columnist