Today I was in town and finding myself with a little time on my hands I decided to wander down to the bookshop and browse awhile. I nearly said that I would waste some time in there but it is my belief that time spent in bookshops is never wasted. How can it be so to one with an active and inquiring mind?
To me bookshops and libraries should be hallowed places like cathedrals or even monasteries, full of reverence – and Trappists. That is to say quietness, or silence, should be the order of the day. So how is it then that so many people seem to think that it’s OK to take their brood of noisy and badly behaved kids into the local branch of Ottastones? And why does the shop feel the need to provide a musical accompaniment to my literary browsing? Apart from being intrusive the music at any one time is unlikely to complement the mood of the piece that I’m reading and almost always ruins my concentration.
I was in the Novels section nosing through some prospective books for light reading on my forthcoming holiday and trying to discern which author’s style took my fancy. It was then that I became aware of a child- like hubbub outside the shop but took no particular notice until it started to intrude within the store itself. On looking round I see a 30-something couple shuffling past the bargain bin. The chap was sporting a papoose on his chest into which had been stuffed a baby of the species whose four small limbs splayed outwards like a starfish. A low gurgling emanated from this tiny bundle which was quite reminiscent of a geyser about to blow at any moment. Maybe it was just trying to shift a hairball that it had accumulated from dad’s straggly beard into which its face was pressed.
The wife/partner/significant other, being dressed in an eclectic mix of shapeless charity shop cast-offs, beamed inanely whilst peering owlishly through large glasses of a style last seen in the 1980′s. Her out-stretched hand was being disengaged by a Tasmanian Devil cunningly disguised as a human boy-child and who answered to the name of Billy. Well, actually, he didn’t seem to answer at all when mummy called out for him to come back in a reedy voice laced with vague hope rather than authority.
“Billy, come here Billy.”
“WAAAAAAAHHH,” came a yell as a large book crashed to the floor. “Don’t do that, Billy,” said Daddy in a calm and unruffled voice.
“WAAAAAAAHHH,” came the sound from somewhere near the Crime section.
“Billy, I said no,” said Daddy wistfully to no one in particular.
I expected that at any moment the father figure would threaten young Billy. A threat to sit him down and reason with him most likely.
It was then that the starfish got the milky hairball off its chest and onto Daddy’s. A parental kerfuffle ensued with low cursing and a frantic search for tissues and wet wipes. Starfish, now empty, needed refilling and lost no time in letting them know and all the while there’s,
“WAAAAAAAHHH,” from the direction of Health and Beauty.
A small bottle of milk was produced for the starfish. I’m surprised as I was expecting a breast. So was the starfish who instantly complained.
Enough. I’ll come back another day or maybe I’ll just order from Amazon.