I had some time to spare before Monday’s lunch, so called in at Waterstones West End. I don’t often go there. Mostly for events. But as it was just where I got off the bus, I felt it made sense to actually go in and actually look at the books they have.
Anyway, they have armchairs to sit in, so I reckoned I could always rest if it got too much for me.
Conveniently the categories I’m most interested in were all on the same floor. They were Children’s, Crime and Fiction. And Fantasy.
As you know, I never – well, hardly ever – buy books. This time I went in with the revolutionary thought that maybe I would. If they had what I could want, and if it felt right.
There’s a book I’ve requested several times from the publishers. It never arrives. Some books are like that. I try to console myself with the thought that it’s unlikely that it’s because they don’t like me, or because they can’t afford to send me books (considering how much else they send).
So I looked for that book, and found it, along with its successor. That tells you how long I’ve been asking. And no, they didn’t send the second book either.
Also chose an older book by an old favourite, because I wish to work my way through the as yet unread books of his.
Then I paid and got in the lift, where I remembered I had intended to look for some other book, too. Went back and searched and they had that book as well. Good for them.
I obviously can’t keep this up, but I wanted to discover what the sensation of entering a bookshop and spending money would be like. That side of things was fine.
Was a little worried when looking over the tables of children’s books they are recommending (i.e. wanting to thrust at customers first). I’d not read very many. In fact, I’d barely heard of most of them. It got better as I searched the shelves. I could see books I’d read and liked, and the more I walked round the room, I found lots of old favourites. If there had been any needy children there, I’d have pushed the lot at them.