Tales from the desk
My exams are all over. All that remains to be seen is what result my 'hard work' brings. I'm sure it'll be fine, sure, I'm always being told I land on my own two feet. Personally I always like to think that I'm never up in the air without enough coffee & nicotine to gently waft my way down.
However, the sleep deprivation and stress has brought about some fairly uncomfortable situations. You've only had a few hours sleep in the last four or five days so hand and eye co-ordination is a little off. Your perception of reality has been tweaked by stimulants and the three year old in the pram seems to be looking straight at you with sinister intent. And her head seems to have pivoted an awfully long way from her chest.
I was selling some kids books to a yummy mummy and her insane little undead demon of her womb. The Gruffalo, The Hungry Caterpillar, Sasek's This is London, some of the Mr.Men Series, some other of the gorgeous books that my most excellent Portugese colleague orders. The kid was yelling and dancing around the shop as all spoilt little brats do and I was smiling and forbearing it while I pulled out more books that my yummy mummy cooed over and stacked in the pram complimenting me on my taste as I did so. She knew I was a little under her spell & she encouraged me to talk about myself, asked me if I had kids -I had just shaved so looked about twelve- she leaned a little closer into me when I told her of the other bookshop I where sold rare & modern 1st editions. When I finally got her to the till and she had paid I was feeling uncomfortably flustered. It was almost over and I was already mourning her loss. I handed the two bags of her books over the till and gave the child another little bag with the travel sweets she had thrown a tantrum for. When I started bending back up again I realised that I had been level with the yummy mummy's indecently exposed breasts the entire time. She flounced them back into my face once again before she left, shaking my hand and thanking me profusely. She promised to come back the next time she was in town. What does that mean? I'm not going to be winning any great matches with my conscience or the devilchild if she does come back.
As I mentioned I also work for another excellent bookshop that specialises in modern first editions, beat art & literature, drug books and just generally, um, counterculture. In the heart of Soho headed by The Boss, one of the most charismatic booksellers I have ever met, my boss knows everything happening in the town and has a personal invite to it. His personal friends and customers include Patti Smith and Jude Law. His knowledge of books is encyclopedic and his taste unimpeachable. The bookshop mirrors his taste, an eclectic and excellent stock of literature outside of the mainstream, a person of quality.
Again, I had been up all night in the library doodling on bookcovers and pulling out books that had nothing really to do with my exams. Next day I was working. It was an awful day. Later I found that I sent the wrong books to the wrong people. I had been late due to falling asleep at my kitchen table. The weather had not yet turned into this heatwave that forces yummy mummies to bare all while parading their spawn of satan. It rained all day. The Boss didn't bat an eyelid when I was late. There was only a calm and gravelly message on my phone. The book mix-up didn't fluster him either. There was a big pile of books he had bought/been gifted from the Strand in New York. When he left me to my chores I tried hard to sell a couple of books. There was barely anyone in the court and foot-traffic was at an ultimate standstill. Anyone who came into the shop seemed to already be in the trade and not interested in what I had to offer. A young-ish stockbroker tried to convince me his first edition of Harry Potter was worth 9000 pounds and worth buying when it's worth less than the ugly boring socks he was wearing. A student wanted to buy the very first edition of Austen's Pride and Prejudice when I couldn't have sold him the steam off my piss for what he wanted to spend. The recession has hit small-holders harder than you can imagine but blindingly stupid and wilful ignorance hits even harder these days. An aging Irishman come into my shop to ask some questions about a Pietro Psaier painting of James Joyce we have and we start talking about Irish art and literature. He has some interesting things to say and I listen. He tells me about his youth and as is usual in a conversation with someone your elder he invariably comes up with a modification of the 'when you're young you can do this kindof thing' line. I tell him my age and he says to me in sincere understanding: "Sure I carried my age well till I hit 42. It was all downhill from there" The Boss phones me to ask if I had sold anything else yet. As the Irishman from Mayo leaves and I'm smoking outside the shop, The Boss walks towards me and I can point out the erstwhile customer. I hadn't sold the 1500 pound painting, I didn't sell anything else and after work, instead of even attempting to go study, I just went home and fell asleep on the couch in my room to dream of punchlines and great sales pitches that net the moon an' everything else.
However, the sleep deprivation and stress has brought about some fairly uncomfortable situations. You've only had a few hours sleep in the last four or five days so hand and eye co-ordination is a little off. Your perception of reality has been tweaked by stimulants and the three year old in the pram seems to be looking straight at you with sinister intent. And her head seems to have pivoted an awfully long way from her chest.
I was selling some kids books to a yummy mummy and her insane little undead demon of her womb. The Gruffalo, The Hungry Caterpillar, Sasek's This is London, some of the Mr.Men Series, some other of the gorgeous books that my most excellent Portugese colleague orders. The kid was yelling and dancing around the shop as all spoilt little brats do and I was smiling and forbearing it while I pulled out more books that my yummy mummy cooed over and stacked in the pram complimenting me on my taste as I did so. She knew I was a little under her spell & she encouraged me to talk about myself, asked me if I had kids -I had just shaved so looked about twelve- she leaned a little closer into me when I told her of the other bookshop I where sold rare & modern 1st editions. When I finally got her to the till and she had paid I was feeling uncomfortably flustered. It was almost over and I was already mourning her loss. I handed the two bags of her books over the till and gave the child another little bag with the travel sweets she had thrown a tantrum for. When I started bending back up again I realised that I had been level with the yummy mummy's indecently exposed breasts the entire time. She flounced them back into my face once again before she left, shaking my hand and thanking me profusely. She promised to come back the next time she was in town. What does that mean? I'm not going to be winning any great matches with my conscience or the devilchild if she does come back.
As I mentioned I also work for another excellent bookshop that specialises in modern first editions, beat art & literature, drug books and just generally, um, counterculture. In the heart of Soho headed by The Boss, one of the most charismatic booksellers I have ever met, my boss knows everything happening in the town and has a personal invite to it. His personal friends and customers include Patti Smith and Jude Law. His knowledge of books is encyclopedic and his taste unimpeachable. The bookshop mirrors his taste, an eclectic and excellent stock of literature outside of the mainstream, a person of quality.
Again, I had been up all night in the library doodling on bookcovers and pulling out books that had nothing really to do with my exams. Next day I was working. It was an awful day. Later I found that I sent the wrong books to the wrong people. I had been late due to falling asleep at my kitchen table. The weather had not yet turned into this heatwave that forces yummy mummies to bare all while parading their spawn of satan. It rained all day. The Boss didn't bat an eyelid when I was late. There was only a calm and gravelly message on my phone. The book mix-up didn't fluster him either. There was a big pile of books he had bought/been gifted from the Strand in New York. When he left me to my chores I tried hard to sell a couple of books. There was barely anyone in the court and foot-traffic was at an ultimate standstill. Anyone who came into the shop seemed to already be in the trade and not interested in what I had to offer. A young-ish stockbroker tried to convince me his first edition of Harry Potter was worth 9000 pounds and worth buying when it's worth less than the ugly boring socks he was wearing. A student wanted to buy the very first edition of Austen's Pride and Prejudice when I couldn't have sold him the steam off my piss for what he wanted to spend. The recession has hit small-holders harder than you can imagine but blindingly stupid and wilful ignorance hits even harder these days. An aging Irishman come into my shop to ask some questions about a Pietro Psaier painting of James Joyce we have and we start talking about Irish art and literature. He has some interesting things to say and I listen. He tells me about his youth and as is usual in a conversation with someone your elder he invariably comes up with a modification of the 'when you're young you can do this kindof thing' line. I tell him my age and he says to me in sincere understanding: "Sure I carried my age well till I hit 42. It was all downhill from there" The Boss phones me to ask if I had sold anything else yet. As the Irishman from Mayo leaves and I'm smoking outside the shop, The Boss walks towards me and I can point out the erstwhile customer. I hadn't sold the 1500 pound painting, I didn't sell anything else and after work, instead of even attempting to go study, I just went home and fell asleep on the couch in my room to dream of punchlines and great sales pitches that net the moon an' everything else.
