For the first time ever I went to sell some of my old books. Sluttish, I know. Buying second-hand books isn't, of course. It's just being cheap and/or sensible. Judd, Skoob, Waterstone's (Dillons). Nada. Interesting experience though. Felt a bit like selling porn. Pss, hey, you, are you interested in...
The woman at Skoob was a fucking joker (though quite attractive, with her dark Irish hair). Five pounds for Held's Globalisation book (awful); Muthoo's Bargaining theory (incomprehensible); and Scruton's Modern Philosophy (the print puts me off this one). Mint condition. Five pounds for the lot. Jesus! There's capitalism for you (or is it racism?)..."No, I decline your offer," I say pompously and then promptly get the hell out of there.
~~~
~~~
Well, bought a marathon (no, not going to give in to the Americans) from a man at M&S called Andreas! Can you beat that, Roxana? He was trying to chat up a-let's be polite here-very large woman, telling her in his slimy, bushy-eyebrowed way: "you don't look a day over thirty; some women do, but you don't, I swear it". Embarrassing.
Tramped around Foyles for a while, looking for a book on Gedney. I'm not sure if I'm talking to myself nowadays but given the looks I get from the sales assistants this must be a distinct possibility..."Yes, Sennett is spelt with two 't's', " I say. Why are they trying to test me? The guy looks on incredulously. Even that Asian chick at the LSE bookshop looked at me sheepishly, almost with contempt. (Well, there's desis for you, always putting down their own). It's as if everyone knew I was selling books.
Picked up Solo Faces though. Style over substance? Maybe.
No comments:
Post a Comment