Читать книгу Confessions of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell - Страница 49

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Flo in the shop again today so I set her the task of setting up mail merge for the Random Book Club spreadsheet.

Me: Flo, have you finished that spreadsheet?

Flo: I’ve sort of half done it.

Me: Well, you’ll sort of half get paid then.

Flo: Fuck off, you should be paying me more.

This is typical of the high esteem in which I’m held by members of staff.

Telephone call after lunch from someone in Edinburgh whose father died recently, leaving 30,000 books, mainly classics. I have arranged to view them on Friday.

Left the shop at 2 p.m. (with Flo in charge again) to look at books in a house near New Abbey, owned by the people who I went to see on my first ever book deal with John Carter, from whom I bought the shop. He kindly accompanied me on my first few buying trips to help ensure I didn’t make any catastrophic mistakes. Back then the family selling their books was also selling their home, Kirkconnell House, which had a fine country house library. This time, sadly, the old lady we dealt with had died and her daughter was disposing of the contents of the house she’d moved into after they’d sold the castle. Unfortunately it was mostly rubbish: Reader’s Digest condensed books, and dozens of books about flower-arranging, that sort of thing. On the way there I stopped to pick up boxes from Galloway Lodge jam factory. Their discarded apple boxes are perfect for books. Ruaridh, who runs Galloway Lodge Preserves, is the younger brother of my childhood friend Christian, and is among the most irreverent of my many rude friends.

Returned home in time to say goodbye to Flo, followed by a meal with the Readers’ Retreat guests. Bed at 1.30 a.m.

Till Total £274

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