What happened on February 10th, 2022

A lady cycling past the door this morning slowed to get a better view of the cat in my window. But she slowed down too much, wobbled, and fell against the door with a shout. Everyone was startled, especially me. But she righted and kept on.

An old lady browsing in the front room said, ‘Golly.’

Someone rang for a copy of Mrs Kelly by Grantlee Kieza. Someone rang for Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods.

Kerry came for thrillers: anything he hasn’t read yet and bought two that he has read.

I did some good solid shelving. Put everything in the correct order and neatly because Callie is coming tomorrow. Rearranged the windows, and a lady walking past said into a phone, ‘There’s a cute old place here selling books you’d like’.

Dictionary Chris rang for Sophie Morgan books. Alan came in and said someone was break dancing and fell out of their gopher near his house, and they had to call the ambulance. Then he went over to Woolies to get gravy.

Removed another spider from the front room. Two tradesmen went past with about 10 paper bags of bakery food each. Now I’m hungry.

A teenager bought a Complete Shakespeare, a Complete Sherlock Holmes, and a Beatrix Potter Treasury.  She said (with relish) that her room at home is a library.

I sold out of Morgan Taubert’s My Goblin Therapist. Must message for more. A lady put her head in the door and said the balloons are pretty.

Redid the front shelves so they look refreshed and popping. Sarah came in and said she used to have an orange van and that we shouldn’t listen to the ABC. She said Tales From Wandin Valley is one of the best books she’s ever read. We looked it up online and found a copy on Ebay for 7 British pounds. She said she knew it was going up in value.

Ordered two Francis Spufford books and 3 Christopher Fowler books. Looked online for a copy of People of The Book for myself but then found one in my own shop. Lucky.

Deb got her gopher stuck in my doorway doing a three point turn. She was telling a friend about a hip operation and not really hurrying. So nobody could get in or out.

Sarah, returning from Woolies just then, couldn’t get through, and said (loudly) there were too many people standing about and the bakery needed to sweep up all the mandarin peel. Everyone pretty much dispersed then.

I cleaned windows and stacked shelves quietly for the rest of the day, and when I was packing up, someone asked me if I wanted a small dog, which I didn’t, so they took it back across the road again.  

Thelma and John

59830ceb33ff5_67WYiHWr__700Thelma and John are regular visitors to the shop. I met them one summer when it was hot and they were concerned for their garden and worried about never finding a copy of The Snow Goose by Paul Gallico. They have children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, they finish each other’s sentences and find many things hilarious, especially the illustrations of The Gumnut Babies by May Gibbs and especially the picture of the banksia man running away with a gumnut baby upside down.

John loves railway artists and Sherlock Holmes. Thelma, at the moment, loves Roald Dahl. Today John is telling me about Charles Dickens, he has read most of these books. He is telling me about Dombey and Son, which is sad, sombre and just sad. This fellow, Dombey, wanted a son to carry on the business but the baby of course is born sickly. John is hilarious; following the memories of the story in his head (Dickens used so so many words… I shouldn’t tell you anymore…I won’t tell you anymore).

Thelma and John just keep on living on, they have put down roots into the things they love. Alongside their medley of conventional health problems, their lives seeming to grow bigger, richer and deeper as they grow older and slower, telling me about their fabulous library, their fabulous family and the fabulous garden, this fabulous wine, and a fabulous shed where John has an easel and Thelma has flower pots.

Suddenly, today, a young girl appeared at their elbow as they talked to me. She had a copy of The Fault in our Stars which she wanted me to put aside for her until tomorrow when she would have some money.

Thelma swept forward, majestic, delighted and paid for the book herself and presented it to the child, who accepted it anxiously, speechless, delighted.

The Ideal Reader

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A fisherman from Kingston came in looking for Terry Pratchett and told me that once he bought a Terry Pratchett in Mt Gambier. He said the beach along the Kingston coast is a mess but that is the fault of developers and the council. He said that Terry Pratchett would have said a thing or two about that! Hahaha! I agreed with this and he went out very pleased.

I remember one morning this week, a man was waiting for his small daughter. But she had found The Lightning Bolt by Kate Forsyth and this book is book five of The Chain of Charms series. She was about seven years old, kneeling on the floor to read the book and her father was moving impatiently. His work boot nudged and toppled Animalia and she rebuked him silently with a lifted finger. He stared through the window, rattling keys, obedient. Suddenly she stood and showed him the cover; she was radiant and suddenly, so was he.

A man said that his hallway was lined with bookshelves and it was the length of a cricket pitch. His wife said she did not think it was this long.

I have finished with the Edith Wharton and I read the best stories in this book twice over so as not to miss anything. I am not reading anything else, not yet, because the story Mrs Manstey’s View will not let anything else in.

I was asked for Batavia by Peter Fitzsimons and Secret Servant: The Life of Sir Stewart Menzies by Anthony Cave Brown. This reader told me that Nagal’s Journal, which he found here last time, is the best thing he has ever read. He said that the diaries on the ships, as kept by the captains are the best reading there is. He squared his shoulders and stood back to see if I might disagree.

Three teenage girls were talking and talking. One asked for Sherlock Holmes. She hopped up and down when she told me how much she loved Sherlock Holmes. But sadly, I had none. She said: imagine this, imagine Sherlock Holmes in hardback. I really want to find this…Oh my God.

Her friend said: look at this, I am so into this. Oh my gosh guys. What will I do? Oh my God, I am going to have this.

What is it?

It’s Harry Potter. They all bent over the volume, close together and suddenly speechless. They whisper: it’s a hardback, it’s in another language. Oh my God. They place the volume on the counter and look at me dazed. She says: I collect them. Then they left, leaning on each other, hilarious, rapt.

A tall man in front of me examines the Wordsworth classics and is intense and frowning. His wife is amongst the Art. He leans back; as usual there is nothing for him! He returns to Art but his wife is not finished. She says: I’m not nearly done. She is frowning now too; he moves away and she stops frowning.

One man was intent upon the histories. Then he came away abruptly from the shelf and regarded his son who was texting angrily outside the front door. He said he might come back another time. He closed the door politely but also angrily.

I was told that Dick Francis wrote better books than his son. A lady told me that her fifteen year old grandson loved to read fantasy series but she was going to buy him a biography of a yachtsman instead.

A very tall and smiling man bought Martin Chuzzlewit and said that Charles Dickens had the most extraordinary way with words. He said he was reading them all, he did not like Bleak House but the rest, just marvellous indeed.

I have only read two books by Charles Dickens and they are not easily forgotten. I told him that when Daniel Quilp drowns in The Old Curiosity Shop I was glad! He said: yes indeed!

Two men together were talking about their teenage sons. One man said that his son would not show him how to use the remote for the television because he learns too slowly. His friend said: hahaha.

They asked me for a copy of Watership Down.

I was asked for books on card tricks and a young girl showed me a plaster dragon she had just bought from the goodwill shop. I was asked for the Wind in the Willows.

A man said he had a lot of time for Willa Cather. He asked me had I read her. I said that I planned to but right now I am with Edith Wharton and he said …AHHH…and he looked very happy. He told me that when I get to Willa Cather to read Death Comes for the Archbishop first.

I am floundering and falling amongst all of the titles, all of the must reads and the best reads and the don’t miss reads. It is a good way to be.

 

“The ideal reader is the translator, able to dissect the text, peel back the skin, slice down to the marrow, follow each artery and each vein, and then set on its feet a whole new sentient being. The ideal reader is not a taxidermist.”

Notes Towards a Definition of the Ideal Reader by Alberto Manguel