“I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.”
“The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed him.”
The thing is, bookshops are dangerous places for terminally broke, book-addicted folks such as myself. A quick trip is never quick. Dropping by involves going round all the shelves picking up likely books and then using a lot of will power to put them back down. I avoid Waterloo Bridge at the weekend, because all the secondhand marvels would bankrupt me. Back when the Coffee Monster and I were rocking the long-distance thing, he came to visit and we spent a week visiting all the reputable secondhand bookshops in London. And some of the firsthand. We ended up with so many books that he had difficulty getting his home, and I ended up living on porridge for a month. Additionally, we’re both collection freaks. Him more so than me. I’m not completely concerned about getting matching editions, but I do like to have everything in a set. We have everything ever written by John Wyndham in our flat. Twice.
So, this evening, while I was pottering around clutching what was definitely the only book I had planned on buying, I was sunk by the sight of all three Cornelia Funke ‘Ink’ books – the paperback gift editions – in a row on a shelf. All books in a trilogy, side by side, happens less often in bookshops than it ought to; though in retrospect, that’s probably a good thing, because the net result was that I’d picked them up before I really thought about it and bought the lot.
Not a good picture. No decent camera – but, ooooh, the lovely!
Ladies and gentleman, I am a low-paid media minion. I can’t afford such whimsical extravagence, especially not in a dreaded five-week month. I take comfort in the fact that when I’m hungry, I’ve got something to take my mind off it.