Many years ago I worked in a big central London bookshop. I needed that job and for a while I was very happy. It helped that there was an extraordinary bunch of people working there, and I made some friends that I'm very glad still to have.
One of the loveliest booksellers, P, made sure that I knew where the canteen was, and the loos, and taught me, gently and patiently, to use the till and work the stock computer. He shared his lunch breaks with me and generally took excellent care of me. He made going to work a pleasure. And as he was a great bookseller he was a good example, too.
He's a modest man, but we all knew that in his spare time, P was an illustrator and graphic artist. He put up with the low pay and odd hours of bookselling because it gave him time to sit at his board. Many booksellers are aspiring writers or artists - of one sort or another - and who knows how many of them are genuinely talented, but my instinct was that P probably was. I hoped so, because it mattered to him that one day he'd establish himself, and his 'real' life would begin.
His hard work paid off. And it turns out he's very talented indeed, and now in huge demand. His success makes me happy, because he deserves it. And, more selfishly, it makes me happy because P's story is proof that all the effort and doubt might just be worth it after all.
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hurrah and huzzah for the everyman who rises above!
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