Greetings, Internet followers,
I have a condition. I don't know what it's called, but I'm pretty sure it's genetic, and I've inherited it from my father. Essentially, there are two main symptoms. The first is an inability to go past a second-hand bookshop without going in. The second is an inability, once inside said bookshop, to escape without first purchasing at least one book.
Now, I'm not knocking second-hand bookshops at all. All that I'm saying is that, with hindsight, I could probably have lived without a copy of The Book of Mormon, Irish Wit and Wisdom and a biography of Eddie Jordan. Mind you, I have also picked up some real gems as well - such as The Blind Watchmaker by Richard Dawkins, which I bought for fully seven pounds cheaper than the same book in Waterstone's.
Usually my condition results in little more than a rather full bookshelf and an inexplicably lightened wallet. However, yesterday I was confronted with a terrifying experience, and one I would rather not repeat. It involved a bookshop that, despite my travelling past it on the bus at least three times a week, I had never previously noticed. On Wednesday afternoon, however, I spotted it as we sat in the inevitable traffic jam, and decided that I would pay it a visit at the weekend.
I entered the shop, and was pleased to find it was an archetypal second-hand bookshop. Not one of these pseudo-chain things they try out at Oxfam and St. Richard's Hospice charity bookshops - excellent as they may be - but a proper, old, rustic bookshop, where it was considered highly unfashionable to be covered in anything less than two inches of dust. Even the middle-aged man sat behind the counter, doing Sudoku and listening to Classic FM, was suitably dusty and looked like he hadn't moved for weeks.
One of the great advantages of bookshops like this is that there are never any signs, anywhere, telling you what category the books on the nearest shelf fit into. You are forced, instead, to look at each title individually and conclude from it that you are currently looking at Gardening & Cookery. The other thing that is endearing is the totally illogical arrangement of the categories, so that just to the right of Gardening & Cookery is Philosophy, and after that is Music.
As I contemplated a sizeable tome by Aldous Huxley, the news came on. The man at the counter noticeably shifted his attention from Sudoku to radio. As soon as "the Government" was mentioned, in the second or third news item, he uttered just a single word. "Twats." This was then followed by "stupid bastards" a few moments later.
Brilliant. I had stumbled into a bookshop inhabited by a middle-aged, dusty man with Tourette's syndrome. By now I was beginning to wish I were elsewhere, but my condition would not let me leave until I had bought something. Putting a book about Guns N' Roses back on the shelf, I saw above it a biography of Mark Knopfler, legendary frontman for Dire Straits.
That would do. I went over to the counter, and the dusty man flicked back the cover and asked for the five pounds marked in pencil on the inside. For the uninitiated, five pounds is a fairly high price for a second-hand book, but the condition was good and the content - I hoped - interesting, so I was willing to shell out.
"Mark Knopfler, eh?" he said, his voice betraying a tone of mild amusement. "Surprised he's still alive, if you know what I mean." He then did a crude impression of somebody snorting cocaine and injecting heroin, just in case I didn't know what he meant. I did.
I smiled and took the bag with the book inside, hoping I would be able to leave very soon and the whole ordeal would soon be over. Unfortunately, it was not to be. "Mind you, they were all like that - the Stones and everything. Still going, the Stones, you know? Still raking it in, doing their world tours and all that."
Half an hour later - after the dusty man had given his opinion on modern music, teenage girls and the price of petrol, and told me at least four vaguely contradictory accounts of his childhood - I had been smiling, laughing politely and subtly looking at my watch for so long I was sure I was never going to escape, at least until the dust rapidly sedimenting onto my body was of a sufficient thickness for me to blend in with the surroundings. I felt as if I knew more about this man than I did about myself, and he had given me a promotional flyer for a local nightclub, despite the fact that I had told him at least twice that I didn't like clubs, and I didn't like hip-hop, and no, I didn't even like the artist that was playing at the club tonight.
As I bid him farewell and turned to leave, I reflected that he really should have put up a sign:
WARNING. Carbon dioxide levels around this man may be dangerously high. In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will descend from the ceiling. Help yourselves, then help the children.
I walked out of the door and spotted a man surveying the basket of books outside. As I turned to head down the street and into the town centre, I shot him a look. It was a look that said, No! Don't go in there. You might die. I hope he heeded my advice.
Revolutionary and dusty regards,
Red Andy
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