After we'd been to the Vets this afternoon Himself found a parking place right outside a little bookshop that I've been itching to go into for ages and ages.
It's extremely tiny...about as big as our bathroom, and crammed floor to ceiling with paperbacks on every subject under the sun.
But the owner talks...and talks and then talks for a while longer until my head was spinning and I'd almost forgotten why I was in there...she's also from the part of the country I mustn't mention anymore. With a perma tan. Sort of orange rather than brown. And stinky perfume which made my nose run...not an attractive sight when one has plastic nodules stuffed into both nostrils and the only tissue in my handbag was a bit of scrunched up kitchen roll, decorated with blue saucepans...I'd forgotten to buy little packs of dainty tissues.
I found a couple of books I wanted and asked her the price...
Silly me...
She looks the price up on the Internet...and I rather think she then doubles, if not trebles, the price suggested...for one exceedingly thin treatise on how the Cotton weaving industry in England went into a slow decline, she was asking €10...
I put it down.
It wasn't in pristine condition...many of the edges of the pages had been turned down...and there was a list of telephone numbers scribbled inside the front cover.
By being greedy, she's lost a customer, who, unbeknown to her, would have bought books on obscure subjects every week ...providing there was a parking space near by.
The Art Of Letter-Writing...
I am so scared that this is it
