65. Secondhand Bookshops

I was in Rye on Saturday afternoon - we had tea and cake (we never have tea and cake! But it was lovely) in an old Apothecary, then we went to Henry James' house, and by then it was 5pm and the shops in Rye were, firmly, closed. By chance, on one cobbled side street, we found a secondhand and antiquarian bookshop that was still open. Herself disappeared off somewhere while I stood and looked at the fiction. I found a couple of books by an author I have wanted to try (Barbara Pym) and felt that little fillip of pleasure that such finds always give me. The bookseller was very rude to a poor Frenchman who wandered in wanting books in French, and rather charming to me. She was Irish, and a Barbara Pym fan, so I had a couple of advantages I guess. She even took money off the books, which was unexpected.

It occurred to me that secondhand bookshops, and charity shop book sections, are of quite serious importance to my life. I haven't got the money to buy all the books I buy new (I'd have to be rich, rich, RICH) and I don't like buying them from Amazon even if they're a penny. Don't ask, I can't explain it. Books are a tactile pleasure. And I love the smell of bookshops, so it works with that sense, too. I think the joy of secondhand and charity shops comes partly from the handling, partly from the smell, and partly from the chance encounter - such as finding two Barbara Pyms. I store a list of books or authors I want to read in my head, and thus always have a reason for a quick look at the bookshelves. I also find books I might never come across in a 'new' bookshop, or the library, or on Amazon. I suppose even if Kindle kills the high street bookshop it will take a while for secondhand bookshops to go out of business. Won't it? Average life span for a woman these days is 80-something, so I've got 50-odd more years of secondhand book shopping to do. Will there still be secondhand bookshops in 2060? I suppose I'll have to run one. I'll sell stationery too. Perfect.

But the best secondhand bookshop in the world is, in fact, my mother's house. I suppose it's more like a library, really, because she makes me give the books back - although you'd think she'd be glad of the extra room my pilfering gives her.
E F Benson lived in Lamb House after Henry James, and his Mapp and Lucia novels are mainly set in Rye, so I was curious to have a read. There they all were, on Mother's bookshelves, along with one of the Barbara Pym's I spent money on...
It's like a big lovely bookshop just for me! And the booklender is lovely and very funny and chasteningly well-read so of course that's a huge pleasure in itself. Makes you think about genetics, doesn't it? I'm pretty sure my brothers can read, but they didn't get this gene. It's all mine to share with my parental booklender. Which is fine by me. Now, where did I put those books...

64. Getting nice things in the post

Doesn't happen often. But today, I received:

One iPhone
One copy of The Love Letter by Cathleen Schine - which I'm sure is going to be awful/wonderful.
One boxset of Arrested Development Seasons 1-3

I am going on a writer's retreat next week. Me and the dog, in the little house on the water all by ourselves, with at least 2000 words to write every day, and a variety of toothsome entertainments for the evening.

That's if I can resist the siren call of the iPhone, which is toothsome in itself. I will do my best.

Blogging may be infrequent over the next few days, but I will do my best with that, too.

63. THE GYM!!

Oh boy. You know it's got bad when you're loving the gym. But hold up while I tell you why.

Running (jogging) in the park hasn't been going well. A puff of wind stopped me in my tracks the other day and later I got overtaken by a toddler on a plastic push-along tractor so my morale has been low. I could tell it was getting to the point where I might allow myself to miss a couple of sessions on purely psychological grounds. This is what is known as the Thin End of the Wedge.

It was at this point that I started fantasising about a slightly too-warm gym, and a treadmill, and an elliptical machine, and weights machines, and feeling physically at one in my surroundings, rather than staring with undisguised loathing at all the freakin' smug marathoners in the park. (I'm not proud of myself.)

Problem is, gyms cost money - and too much of it, in my opinion. So imagine my genuine delight when I discovered that the old council gym in Camden had been refurbished at vast taxpayer expense and was sheer desperados for members. I got unlimited gym membership for £20 a month! And I didn't have to do a test or take a bill up there nor nuffink. I simply waved a printed email at somebody and they let me in! And it was WONDERFUL! It was slightly too warm, and running on the treadmill was LOVELY and I watched Cash in the Attic while listening to The Gossip and never has £20 been better spent. So I'm going to go every single day until morale is restored and then I'm going to show that tractor toddler a thing or two about overtaking. Ha! Eat my shorts kid.

62. Rainy Bank Holiday Weekends

If, like me, you live with somebody pathologically opposed to idleness, Rainy Bank Holiday Weekends are rare pockets of sanity in the chaos of doing. Yes, I had to go to Ikea on Saturday (Saturday! Bank Holiday Saturday! At 4 in the afternoon! In Neasden!) but then it started raining. And it didn't stop for 24 hours. This kind of rain can, if I am lucky, bring the Duracell bunny inside Herself to a gradual halt - at which point she looks to me, Queen of Sloth, for guidance. Marvellous.

We ate cake and crisps and olives. We watched The Love Letter, Brideshead Revisited and Roman Holiday. We read the papers and our books. I walked the dog in the rain because I am Irish and therefore immune - then we roasted a chicken. We did not look at our computers, run errands, do jobs round the house or go shopping for clothes. There was a small amount of running, a second short dog walk and a trip to the cinema to see Tina Fey wear a really pretty dress and run around in high heels. (Is there anything she can't do?)

It was peaceful, restful and wonderfully still. And today we were glad to get back to work. These weekends are all too rare in this house, so I make the most of them, especially as she is muttering about painting the kitchen.

61. People Who Smile At Dogs

My friends and family are very sweet to me, and tolerate my habit of saying 'Hello Darling!' to every dog I pass in the street. They know, I think, that I can't help myself, and that the owners don't assume I'm talking to them. Or maybe the owners don't mind hearing the odd endearment, and simply take it as their due.

Anyway, I walked the length of Charlotte Street this afternoon behind a very smart and pretty puppy (and his owner) and for every person who walked past without a flicker of acknowledgment, there was one who smiled, or grinned, or stopped to say hello. While I hate to add to the prejudice in the world, I know that I like the smiley stoppers more than I like the others. As the owner of the best and most beautiful pooch in the entire universe (sorry Enzo, sorry Charlotte, sorry Sophie, sorry Amy - but it's true) I measure strangers by their reaction to my dog. When she was a puppy we couldn't move her ten yards down the street without being stopped for people to coo over her, and even now she's 10 she still gets her fair share of stoppers. She also elicits broad beams of doggie-lovin' pleasure from men and women she passes in the street, even when she gets in their way and seems to be trying to trip them up. A man once stopped me to say that I should have all her milk ducts cut out immediately as his Westie had died prematurely from cancer, and while his tone and message were abrupt and rather alarming I recognized a grieving soul, and sympathised heartily with his loss.

The point (if there is one) is that London moves at a furious pace, and we move relentlessly between home and work and home again without raising our heads. But amidst all the noise and traffic and endless, endless people there are tiny pockets of pleasure to be had - whether it's a dog, or a window-box, or a splendid outfit.

So the next time you're in the street, and a dog bumps you out of your city reverie for a second, give him a smile. You'll feel better for it.

60. NOT working in an office

I had to go and work in an actual real office today. It was noisy, it was too hot, I had to spend money on my lunch rather than wandering downstairs and raiding the fridge, I didn't have a computer so it was like 1963 - it was awful. I missed my eyrie, and my dog, and my autonomy.

It's the latter, for me, that's so crucial. I worked in offices for years and years and it took me forever to realise that maybe I didn't have to do that any more. I still work in an office, so maybe that term is misleading, but probably you know what I mean. I still get up every day at much the same time, I still get to my desk at much the same time, I still knock off at 6 or thereabouts - but now I set the agenda. I don't have to spend the day in pointless meetings. I don't have to eat Pret a Manger sandwiches unless I want to (which I don't). I don't have to put up with other people's bad habits and flatulence and smelly feet/lunches.

Sometimes it gets a bit lonely up here all by myself. There's no water cooler chat or collective moaning, or impromptu beers in the evening. I have to pay my own taxes, rustle up my own clients, organize my time effectively and resist the lure of the shops. But all of that is fine. Even low-work periods are fine compared to the thought of going back to the 9 to 5. Maybe one of these days I'll go back to being an office worker and I"ll have to swallow my pride and my words and my hat. But I"m going to try not to let it happen - because up here in my eyrie I feel free.

59. The Guide Hound of Claddaghduff

The last time my family went on holiday to the west, we stayed in a bungalow in Claddaghduff - which is the village nearest Omey Island. Big brother Patrick joined us for part of the holiday, and one night he and I decided to walk down to Sweeney's pub for a drink. The lane is just about tarmac, but it's pitted and rough and there weren't any street lights. Patrick had brought his headlamp, so we set off following the beam. Before long we noticed that the beam was no longer showing us the road, it was lighting up a hairy canine bottom. We called the dog to us and recognised him as belonging to the family next door. We tried to send him home, but he wouldn't go. Instead, he ran ahead of us, his bottom always in the beam, and guided us safely to Sweeney's.

A couple of hours later, after some Guinness and some excellent music, Patrick and I headed home. And there once more was the hairy bottom. The dog had been trained, or had learned, to guide his master (or anybody, really) to and from Sweeney's pub. Good dog. Brilliant dog.

Last weekend I drove back up that lane, and easily recognised the bungalow and the stone house next door which 16 years ago had a family of 12 living in it - along with that exemplary hound. As we were turning the car round, a small dog appeared in the road. It wasn't the same dog, but it was very similar - scrappy and strong. He ran alongside the car for a while and I'll tell you the temptation to get out and see if he would guide me to Sweeney's was powerful, even though it was daylight. But we left him standing on the lane, waiting for his next opportunity to do his duty.

I have told Blue this story. She doesn't think much of it. I think she's jealous.