Old books

‘It’s going to turn into a blog post, isn’t it?’ said Daughter.

I should think so. We went antiques shopping after the dentist. Or rather, we didn’t shop at all, merely looked. We might return there once we’ve made our minds up, after sleeping on a few things we saw.

It was good. It almost felt like pre-Covid days. Although the fact that I coveted an awful lot of things, including china figurines – and I am a Scandinavian minimalist – could have been a sign of me being not quite right in the head. The Christopher Robin with Poo and Piglet was really quite sweet…

Ahem, where was I?

So, anywhere that sells old stuff will doubtless sell old books. Some of them possibly even intended for people to read. (There was a bundle of three modern paperbacks, with two of the three authors being people I really don’t care for.)

And some not. For reading, that is. They are now flogging boxes of books for people to decorate with, to give the place that look of belonging to actual readers, people who own lots of lovingly read books. I know this happens, the adorning a room with books never read [by you]. But I’d rather people thought of this idea themselves and then popped into their nearest Oxfam to find some decorating materials. Leather bound books to support a candlestick or two. Whatever.

I bent down to look at the spines, in case there were any titles that required liberating. I know that classic Penguin covers are attractive, but you could at least read them first?

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