Well, that’s what she said, the bookshop assistant who answered the phone when we were ‘hanging’ nearby. Yes, she did have people who wanted to pay for stuff, but my idea of busy appears to have been warped by British shops. ‘It’s The Book Sale’ she told the caller, by way of explanation for the busyness.
It was the second day of The Sale, so I trust they had been more swamped the day before. I could move inside the shop. There was the odd inconsiderate person in my way, but it wasn’t too bad.
I was a little disappointed by the books, though. I wasn’t really thinking of buying, except I did get the idea from looking at someone’s blog last week that there was one book I might purchase. Couldn’t find it. Couldn’t find too much at all, to be honest.
There was Sovay by Celia Rees, and a couple of Cathy Hopkins books. Big pile of Meg Cabot, and what looked like the collected works by Michelle Paver. All a little cheaper than before, but no giving-it-away prices. What I have still to find out is whether their appearance in The Sale of 2011 means you must give up all hope of buying them later.
I think it does. When I wanted to buy more copies of Adèle Geras’s Facing the Light some years ago I bought the last copy in the country and after that you just couldn’t find it. (I know that makes sense. Last copy should indicate ‘no more’.) When Philip Pullman was given the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award in 2005 I believe they had to hurriedly reprint his books in order to have anything to sell. He may be good, but he had been Saled before the award.
On the other hand, selling out in The Sale is a nicer fate than becoming road fill. And if you’re really lucky there might be an award coming, if only because there are no more books.
(There could have been more pictures to accompany this post, had the picture-making facility not had a massive fail. There could even have been a second shop surveyed, had the witch’s legs not had a minor fail. Sorry for any convenience caused.)
In among a letterbox full of junk mail, Daughter extricated three envelopes that vaguely constituted real post; like what to do with my rubbish over Christmas and a bill that should have been sent to the other address.
Oh yes, and the rubbish people (the collectors of, who no doubt are very fine people) require the wheelie bin to be left with the handle facing inwards.
Speaking of addresses that aren’t quite right, there was a postcard too. It was from people I’ve never heard of, including a Cenneth. (Please refer to my earlier blog about weird spellings of English names.) It was addressed to someone I’d never heard of.
But at my address. My street. My number. No postcode. Almost my village, slightly misspelt, but it’s what people do.
Thanks to the online telephone directory I was able to locate the real recipients of the card. (Did I mention it’s from Crete? It looks very nice.) They live about a fifteen minute walk away, in a street that also has something to do with quarries. Like mine. I live at number ten. They live at number nine.
So, pretty close.
Judging by the postmark, Cenneth’s holiday was in October.
I may take a walk in that direction one day, seeing as I have a past in the postal trade.