There’s something about finding an old battered book. I always think about where it’s been in it’s life, whose shelf it’s sat on, whose been flicking through the torn worn pages. Was it a present or did someone save up for it. The subject isn’t always important, if it just has that certain appeal. Sometimes, if lucky, there’s a message inside the cover, or like this week, an old local postcard. I’m so pleased the charity shop I volunteer in has seen the light and is displaying these books to sell, and not putting them in recycling once they have gathered they are not valuable in the money sense of the word.
Sometimes, a book has to come home with me to sit on my shelf, especially if it has been sat there unwanted by customers, I can’t bear for it to be put on the van to go elsewhere.
Lately I was excited to hear a customer pick up a large old book (about what I haven’t a clue) and I heard her declare to her friend that she would buy this because ‘it’s a really lovely book and would look great on my shelf’. Her friend looked at her somewhat strangely. I did think to myself if that were my friends, they would have understood that I needed it.
Well, I could have just about kissed her. I didn’t. But I could have.