I have a soft spot for independent bookshops. Particularly the kind of second-hand bookshop I found just five minutes from my new office. It's a classic. There is no discernible criteria for organising the books, and you stir up vast clouds of dust when you attempt to extract anything. I felt mildly sorry for the scowling shop owner when I took my purchases to the counter. My manic grin and chirpy comments must have grated on his nerves something rotten, but I thought I might sound like a lunatic if I attempted to explain that even his surly demeanour just added to the excitement of my discovery.
I limited myself to three books, rather than the armfuls I wanted, on the basis that I would have to carry them home, but I will be back. I have to study the set-up for my retirement plan. I'm going to have just such a shop, where I will sit behind the till all day with a g&t. Ostensibly I will be working on my own novel, but really spending the bulk of my time glaring resentfully at customers, while a fat, ugly cat sprawls on a cushion on the counter. Obviously I will need to be stinking rich already, because there is no way such a business is going to support me in my old age.
Advance warning - anyone who so much as mentions the word 'Kindle' in my shop will be conked over the head with a cheap hardback, and the body stashed behind the rack of ordnance survey maps.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I well approve of this. My local is Bookmongers in Brixton. So like black books! also heard the conversation:
ReplyDelete{chap changes the cd}
{sounds of hums}
shopkeep 1 "what the f is that?"
shopkeep 2 "bees!"
shopkeep 1 "what?"
shopkeep 2 "its a record of BEES"
i spent the next ten mins giggling. they have a giant dog on a battered leather sofa. you can bring coffee in. its where i got the kama sutra for karla :)