Читать книгу Confessions of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell - Страница 23

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Another cold day.

At 1.30 p.m. Emily, the young artist who leases the warehouse at the back of the shop, turned up with the rent for her studio. Nice to have someone finally giving me money, rather than vice versa.

Found a book teaching Germans how to speak English, Der perfecte Englander, which included the following:

‘Well, Sir, if you have done supping, please to stay yet a little and favour us with some anecdotes.’ [You would NEVER invite a stranger to bore you with anecdotes after you’ve worked in a bookshop for a while.]

‘You must observe a strict diet and perspire a good deal. Take, therefore, some cups of elder-tea.’

‘My stock of stuffs for pantaloons is well assorted this season.’

‘You are very punctual. I wish to be measured for an overcoat.’

‘Tell her to wash my shirt and stockings better than the last time.’

Drove to Newton Stewart for a 3.30 p.m. appointment with Peter, a solicitor, to write my will. As soon as I left, I felt an abrupt sense of my own mortality—and wondered whether not having written a formal will with a solicitor was contributing towards keeping me alive.

Lit the fire and finished reading Miss Lonelyhearts. Brilliantly funny, dark and tragic, and, for a book published in 1933, surprisingly modern. I don’t think I’ve laughed out loud at a book quite as much as when I read the letters that Miss Lonelyhearts (a disillusioned, hard-drinking male journalist) receives from his readers.

Till Total £33

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