After a thoroughly nice weekend (carvery at a local hostelry on Sunday) I woke yesterday with the mother of all depressions hanging above my head. Now where did THAT come from? Not hormones surely, but the chemical composition of our bodies can't be discounted. Maybe it was that delicious dark chocolate pot with kirsch cherries.I rarely feel like chocolate but when I do it has to be good (like the chilli choc recently.)
It didn't help to remember the Banksy painting of the starving African waifs in their T-shirts with "I hate Mondays' across their shrunken chests. Guilt doesn't dissipate gloom.
With the cloud hanging over me it was bound to be a bad day in the shop, but right at the end, just when I thought my backside couldn't take any more sitting upon, a chap came in looking for H V Morton books. I had the two he wanted, 'In Search of England' the very first that this eventually prolific young journalist and poetic travel writer wrote when he had taken a tour around the country in his Morris named Maud. The copy I had to offer was a Folio Soc. and thus rather more expensive than it might have been. The other was 'In Search of Ireland.' Happy customer, happy patron. Day not entirely a waste.
H.V became a bit of a joke with booksellers. 'In Search of..' titles were fetching up in scruffy condition everywhere for a while and it was popular to try to catch each other out with news of a bogus find - 'In Search of Transylvania' might be an example. A dubious title would appear amongst a list of the Morton's for sale in the once essential, pre-internet, magazines for booksellers where books available and books wanted could be found. Never say we book dealers don't have sense of humour.
The nice Red Cross manager K sent me in a couple of boxes of annuals to tempt me. I wasn't much tempted - don't have the space - but did pull out a few copies of "Ideal Book for Boys' from a long-past era. I'll post some pics when I get my camera back. The illustrations alone are enjoyable - to me anyway.
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