Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Soaked from carrying kids in and out the car on the drop-off, my hair dripping and feeling despondent as I'd failed to turn up anything slightly resembling what I wanted at a couple of shops, I stepped into a bookshop. Almost instantly, I was awash with the smell of new books, the peace and quiet and that indescribable feel a bookshop has. I was instantly intoxicated by it all. Floating a couple of inches off the ground, I flicked through all the new releases out in time for Christmas, I compiled a list of summer reading and I completely lost myself. Advent calendar? What advent calendar?
I adore bookshops. When I grow up I want to own one. I want to sit behind the counter, drinking cups of tea, dishing out advice on the latest best sellers. I want to stack the shelves and feel the shiny covers and the weight of the books as I slide them into their right place. I want to arrange book marks and knick-knacks on the counter. I want to inhale the smell of brand-new books all day long.
When I stepped out the shop about 45 minutes later, empty-handed, I felt calm, serene and fulfilled. Who needs valium?
Image by Johanna Ljungblom