A Book Like This

I love books. I think it's genetic: every room in my family home has shelves upon shelves overflowing with them. Tales of love, crime, hate, adventure, mystery - life! The spines cracked, the pages folded, each one having been lovingly held in one or more pairs of hands. The volumes have been all over Europe and America, and all ended up back in an old house in the countryside. I like to remember where I was when I read them, so that when I pick up an old Paul Auster, all I can think of is being in Mammoth Lakes. I can't quite accept these new fangled e-Reader things, with their screens and buttons, the lack of ability to turn a page? It's criminal.

Similarly, I enjoy book shops. As long as I can remember, they have been the chosen meeting point of the family on days in the city. "See you in Waterstones at four!" was the usual calling card. I think it's a shame that the seats have been taken out of most bookstores, meaning I feel less inclined to sit among the shelves for hours, buried in another tale.

I didn't actually go into this one, so busy was I adventuring around Stockbridge and New Town with M.