Peasant salad.

There's nothing like a cold in the head for killing all creative drive. When you bend forward and your nose dribbles - what can you do except keep it upright?

Alan brought in a compilation of music-to-sell-books-by which was really nice of him. He says he enjoys putting them together. I was a bit nervous with the first two tracks (don't have a play list so don't know titles) The first was churchy sort of music which is nice but - churchy. The second was a piano concerto and for some reason I don't much like the piano as an instrument; however, now we are really rocking with some jazz, predominantly saxophone. I was curious about the vocalist who was singing whilst Chloë and I had coffee. I didn't recognise her but she's of the Carly Simon ilke, throaty and flowery. Oh, we are back to some very soothing stuff now - an addaggio? Choir boy voices peeling up above a quiet organ. 'Dig that throbbing organ sound.' quote unquote from a Private Eye cd many years ago when Ted Heath was PM and they were ribbing him about his sexuality. Which these days would be totally outed.

What a mixed peasant salad of thoughts today. I've just read Karen Armstrong's chapter on 'The God of the Philosophers.' So much is becoming clearer to me as I read. I rather wish I had had a classical education - but would that have necessarily given me the overview that she has? N says not. The God of the Mystic next - bound to be easier for me to relate to.

The post-Easter period has brought several orders for books on the subject of God and religion. Not just me then.

Cogito ergo sum

Filthy weather; filthy cold. With sore breathing apparatus, a head full of cattarh, and thoughts about the three monotheistic religions, I bathed then rushed to Tesco for the omninecessary coffee. Also for food. I have been living on Heinz spaghetti hoops, bacon and red wine for the last three days. Dragging bags up the garden path was not fun with the reduced lung capacity - 170 whatevers I was told Tuesday. Most people would think that taking in 350 whtvrs left them a bit oxygen-deprived but that's my usual intake so 170 is not so dreadful, still it halves the norm and makes me feel - unwell!!

Never mind. My brain is still active. Cogito ergo sum. There doesn't seem to be much room in it for focusing on the shop just now what with one thing and another but here I sit at the desk, an available presence if anyone wants that. Juli called in yesterday. We did the Sophia course at the Steiner school together a few years back so she was a good person to bounce my renewed interest in the religion phenomenon around with. Juli needs a God - well, what she needs is an omnipotent Being who is Good I think; as an affirmation that there is goodness to be worked toward, though here I am putting words into her mouth. A reasonable explanation for this existance and consciousness has been what most humans have sought for since the beginnings of consciousness, and either the reassurance that events can be affected in our favour by propitiating gods and the spirit in nature, or with the belief that there is something better for us as a reward at the end of the day. One or the other. Of course I simplify.

At the outset the three great religions that have endured to this time, Judaism, Christianity and Muslim, were all from the same impulse; a mystical place which had little to do with rational thought but a lot to do with an oceanic experience. The sense of oneness with and understanding of the Ineffable. Beacuse it is ineffable and inexpressible it doesn't translate well from the original receptors - Moses, Jesus and Mohammed, and although they all began to pass this on in as pure a form as possible so that caring for their fellow beings and all of creation was a part of the 'message' this gets distorted. It is hard for me to read anything once I hear that women have been sidelined; in fact seen as the continuation of Original Sin and the cause of the Fall. It's not what was originally taught but what was distilled, and in some cases invented, by men from the mythological stories that arose from the Old Testament. Why would any woman bother to read on?

Hounded.

I'm being hounded by a very persistent lady who wants me firstly to tell her if the books she has are collectable, and then make her an offer! Not very realistic of her really. The books she has are collections of pipe music, Bothy Ballads and collected Shetland Music. Also Scottish sheet music. Luckily she is on the end of the telephone. Oh lordy, she just rang back... She's bringing them in on Saturday, although I warned her the going prices on-line are not high - a lot of the stuff is on CD Rom now and I imagine many folk prefer it that way. Not sure if she took it in......

She was followed closely by a retired Church Minister who wants to sell HIS collection of, would one believe, Bible commentaries etc. He made his selling position clear by telling me that he fed peanuts to the birds in the garden. Huh! No Christian charity there then. I'm sallying forth to look at his lot next Tuesday, by which time I hope the asthma has abated. I know they will sell on Amazon, so don't feel disposed to say no.

Which brings me neatly to my topic for the day, Karen Armstrong's book: 'A History of God.' Too soon to tell what I am going to think of it, but a few thoughts have already accrued. One is that she writes very well, knows her subject inside out by the feel of it, and has researched all she says from the point of view of the true seeker. That is to say, she has investigated to find out if what she investigates can leads her to God. A nun once, she left orders and discarded religion, but evidently the whole phenomenon of religion still fascinates her, as indeed it does me. As an epileptic she knows that visions are possibly a malfunction of the brain and I imagine she will deal with that when I get to the chapter on Mystics.

Coupled with the sale, yesterday, of two of the distasteful 'Left Behind' series (which I didn't bin after all so they went to a young woman who goes to 'Bible class' and thinks these horrifyingly fear-mongering books are just the ticket for 'saving' her dad) I feel an urge growing to write a novel based on this search for God. I like very much Arnstrong's last paragraph of all: "Human beings cannot endure emptiness and desolation; they will fill that vacuum by creating a new focus of meaning . The idols of fundamentalism are not good substitutes for God; if we are to create a vibrant new faith for the twenty-first century we should, perhaps, ponder the history of God for some lessons and warnings."

I haven't yet found any mention of how she deals herself with this 'emptiness and desolation.' I know how I have dealt with it though so that's a start.

Raise a cheer for Penguin Books

Every time I read about the beginings of Penguin Books I feel exultation. It really was an incredibly courageous and pioneering initiative. H happened across this today:

Allen Lane, 'All About the Penguin Books', The Bookseller, 22 May 1935

"I would be the first to admit that there is no fortune in this series for anyone concerned, but if my premises are correct and these Penguins are the means of converting book-borrowers into book-buyers, I shall feel that I have perhaps added some small quota to the sum of those who during the last few years have worked for the popularization of the book-shop and the increased sale of books".


His efforts weren't received so well by everyone......

"In my capacity as a reader I applaud the Penguin Books; in my capacity as a writer I pronounce them anathema. Hutchinsons are now bringing out a very similar edition, though only of their own books, and if other publishers follow suit, the result may be a flood of cheap reprints which will cripple the lending libraries and check the output of new novels. This would be a fine thing for literature, but it would be a very bad thing for trade, and when you have to choose between art and money - well, finish it for yourself."

George Orwell, New English Weekly, 5 March 1936

It did, however, have its supporters amongst the press and with some celebrated writers.

Dear Lane,

These Penguin Books are amazingly good value for money. If you can make the series pay for itself - with such books at such price - you will have performed a great publishing feat.

Yours sincerely,

J.B. Priestley

Peaks and troughs.

One of the reasons I have so much time to chat idly about the books I'm reading and my medical hang-ups is because trade has slowed to a crawl. I knew it would but that doesn't mean I'm not shocked. Past experience still doesn't make me complacent about my takings or easier about the troughs - I still panic. Other Amazon sellers have been grumbling for a while now about sales but mine had been really good. Now they have dropped like a stone to one or two a day. When I find myself in a trough I can't believe my stock will ever attract anyone again; it feels woefully inadequate. Then I get a good week and my tail goes up. Today I have been offered three lots of books for sale, accepted one box, and been given two quite good books for free from a fourth person. Not all bad then.

The medical profession.

OT here but as I am feeling ill today and forced to 'go to the doctor' it's topical even if nothing about bookshops or books. I get paranoid about the whole National Health 'service' which gets more and more Fascist in nature. Recently I have had three letters and a phone message summoning me to the asthma clinic and the BP clinic. The asthma clinic I really don't want to go to anyway because: a) The asthma is under control; b) I DO know how to use the damn inhaler - should do after thirty odd years using them; c) the nurse in charge said to my friend Kate: 'Oh we've got you here at last! Do you realise people DIE of asthma?' Helpful. Obviously the nurse herself had never had an asthma attack. if she had had she would have noticed that lack of oxygen does tend to make one fear for ones life. The insistence of the letters unfortunately also makes me feel stubborn about having my blood pressure checked. I am a head-in-the-sand sort of person and intend to stay that way. They have enough hypochondriacs to keep them busy I'm sure.

BP was high this morning because I have a virus and was anyway worked up about having to set foot in the place. I went armed with a letter giving my reasons why I wasn't attending the clinics. Bit wasted really. I could have explained to this doctor who was of the listening variety and gave me an exclusion note on my records. Rare bird. She did take the time to explain that they are obliged by the powers hat be to fulfil their quotas of pro-active patient care. If they don't t they don't get paid. happily she thinks they can fulfil them without me.

In truth it isn't the doctors I fear but the nurses whose lesser status in the profession makes some of them determined to wield what power they do have to maximum effect. I don't like the looks they exchange when taking my BP. Those looks say: 'Look at this Eth. Did you ever see one so high? She's not going to last the day!.' OK OK I know I exagerate and no-one is called Eth these days, but that's the conversation behind those glances. Also it is more often nurses who go in for killing off the patients than the doctors, though Shipman rather spoilt the record.

I went to the flu vaccination cattle market one year and was giving my name, rank and number when a nurse said cuttingly: 'That's alright then. We know who YOU are.'

Paranoia trip. Train leaving at this station.

Reading list.

The Robert Graves biography was strangely unsatisfying and I am trying to decide just why that was. Richard Graves covered all the ground, having such a huge body of information, diaries, letters and accounts by others to collate that it was a gargantuan task. Hard to see the wood for the trees. He obviously did well, yet for me it lacked something, maybe insight. It isn't the right of the biographer to have opinions, yet so many do have at least a point from which they view their subject. I think perhaps Richard G tried to see all points of view. He must have been influenced by the surviving figures in Roberts' life, one of whom was Beryl his second wife who had loyally supported him and stood by whilst he went off with his 'Muses.' He begins the book with a quote from Robert who purportedly said that he disliked 'muck raking' but if it was to happen then at least the full story should be know with all the facts. Starting with his Uncles' expressed wish for the whole truth then, Richard has done well. As the reader I feel I am watching the passion from a great distance and that isn't enough.

I remember that it was in Graves' Greek Mythology that I read the words (given to Chronos I think, must check) that man was not meant to be monogamous. At the time I took it that he meant literally 'men' and not humankind and it seems I was right. Robert himself is unable to accept the lovers of his muses with as much equanimity as Beryl, in the main, accepted the muses. Neither did they accept each other so readily! Cindy disliked being supplanted by Juli. She was by far the most disruptive. The only (?) muse whose relationship with the great man became fully sexual, she very nearly caused the breakdown of his marriage and household. I did raise a cheer when I heard that his daughter Jennie (by Nancy) took Cindy for a walk along a cliff path and at a precipitous point threatened to throw Cindy over unless she agreed to leave Robert alone. Furthermore that if she agreed now and reneged later on the agreement Jennie would find her and kill her later!

It was impossible for me when looking at a phoograph of Robert as a young man, not to see his rather full and fleshy mouth as that of a self-indulgent person. I have judged mouths like that, fairly or unfairly, in the past although reason says that it is a physical trait and not one he could have much control over. There is the evidence that he was a disciplined and hard-working man who pulled his weight domestically, but he does seem to have been able to set aside the feelings of others in order to meet his own needs. Which leads me to the thought: do we forgive great men foibles we would find unacceptable in a lesser man? Is the ill they may have caused others somehow counterweighted by their achievements? It seems that for me the answer is 'yes.' And maybe for Glenda too as I see from her comment that she considers I Claudius to have enriched her life.

Now I have started 'A History of God' by Karen Armstrong, which promises to be more stimulating.

Sophie's poems.

Sophie has her poems on several sites now and today gave me the link to 'Up the Staircase' where there is an interview with her and a voice recording of her reading one of them. I'm bursting with pride. Her CV is beginning to look quite impressive. Hopefully she will be able to get a collection published at some point. and she's also working on a novel.

www.upthestaircase.org

New books not good.

A local author came plying his wares this morning. Two books published by print-on-demand publishers. He would like to see them in the local shops - it gives him a warm cosy feeling! No doubt. But the truth is that it isn't worth my while stocking them at his discount because they will very soon be sold on Amazon for less than I have paid. I took two of the titles that most please me, beating him down to an acceptable price, explaining as gently as possible. He took it well, better than a woman who had written about her life as a district nurse to the Eskimos; an exciting and unusual life, getting to houses by canoe to deliver babies, replace bandages; set broken limbs etc.. However the title was already listed new on Amazon for far less than the price she was asking me to pay her, and when I explained that she was outraged. As the messenger of this bad news I was shot down in angry flames. She had paid to have it published and was trying to recoup her expenses. I would have felt sorry for her but she was rather aggressive. Difficult. In her case she wasn't even local so I wasn't going to buy her book, however interesting.

Robert Graves

My hands are smelling smokey this morning because I've been reading a biography of Robert Graves brought in by someone who smokes. (That wasn't at all what I was planning to write when I started this.) The book (by his nephew Richard Graves) is very compelling and his life an inspiring if exhausting one to read about. I have happened upon the third of what is a trilogy and an enormous work because this was an enormous man who packed a lot into his time on the planet. The third book begins as he settles to life with his third woman, Beryl. It was therefore confusing to read in the beginning because there is so much to try to catch up with. He was maried, had four children by his first wife Nancy, then lived with the American poet Laura Ridng who sounds horrendously egocentric and witchy. Laura eventually became TOO withcy and bitchy and also appears to have tired of him so that she was pleased when he began to be interested in Beryl. At first, then that went sour and chaos ensued. He stayed with Beryl for the rest of his life and cannot be accused of having achieved what he did because there was a woman seeing to all the practical affairs of his life. She was never robust in health, anaemic, easily tired and eventually had cancer which she survived to live to an old age. They had no servants or nannies, or any of the usual helpful unmaried female relatives that families seemed to include in those days, so for many years he was fully involved in the domestic chores and child care. The wonder is that he managed to write anything at all. I have just reached the point where he has decided he needs a new 'Muse.' Interestingly, because this seems to be a common occurance and has relevance to our family, he started to feel this just around the time when he and Beryl were finally able to marry because his first wife agreed to divorce him. The Muse who appears is a seventeen year old American girl who sees him and Beryl as the good parents she didn't have - luckily! She found his attentions and the role he gave her somewhat oppresive, which is refreshing to hear. She didn't let his attention turn her head or give her an identity. On the contrary she seems to have been more eager to lead her own life. Beryl wisely accepted her into the family although it doesn't sound as if the children did!

Graves was, as far as I can read, a passionate, romantic intellectual who became more and mre interested in mythology and in what might these days be called the Feminine principle. he felt that Christianity did humanity a disservice when it diverted the essentially matriarchal, goddess worshipping religion of pagan times. His great book 'The White Goddess' is, confusingly to me, about poetry and the roots of poetry. I feel my own lack of intellect when I try to read his work, but it's good to stretch the mind!

There's certainly no custom to distract so far today, and no Amazon sales either. I remember this from last Easter which although later seemed to have the same effect of a change of gear. It's as though people are thinking ahead to the summer now and less introspective. Less inclined to read!

I changed the books in the window today and it was the usual interesting process. I begin with one idea and it evolves. Today I was going to fill the window with art but it has become a rather dry window about books, book making, printing, and a little about story-telling. It must have been influenced by Graves I think. I have included the 'Bookworm Droppings' that arrived recently (and that I still have to pay for) a cheerful little collection of silly things people say in secondhand bookshops like: "I had a book once. It was blue. I wonder if you have a copy?"

On the whole these days I choose books for the window display less with an eye to selling them and more to give an idea of the range of the shop. I know local people like seeing the changes. Occasionally someone tells me about me it has aroused an interest in them for a subject. It has even started one or two on collections - like the Crime Club boooks for instance. One woman collects them for the lurid covers of the older titles.

Some quotes about poetry

Poetry is just the evidence of life.  If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.  ~Leonard Cohen

Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.  ~Kahlil Gibran

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.  ~Robert Graves, 1962 interview on BBC-TV, based on a very similar statement he overheard around 1955

Imaginary gardens with real toads in them.  ~Marianne Moore's definition of poetry, "Poetry,"

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.  ~Carl Sandburg

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee.
~Emily Dickinson

http://www.quotegarden.com/poetry.html

Too cold for Easter bonnets.

ET at the Post Office has on his Easter bonnet. The rubber doll ET has been sitting there for a couple years now since BT used him for their promotional ads and he has a wardrobe of clothes the counter staff dress him in to suit the occasion, just like the Mannequin Pis in Brussel. He is the only one who is wearing straw bonnet trimmed with chicks though. The rest of us are wearing wooly hats pulled well over our ears. Sandy has another cold, poor child, and I feel a bit dodgy! Hey ho.

Music isn't a big part of my life, I am one who prefers Silence, but Karen and David lent me a very nice CD to put on the iMac. It's ideal for the shop, expecially the way I'm feeling today. 'Brindavan Odyssey,' a collection of ragas, 'Vedic hymns glorifying Krishna' played on a Krishna flute, guitar and I think, a sitar. Might be only sitar. The blurb isn't very helpful here. Anyways, it is very soothing and dreamy and mellow. It is also a change from the assortment of peices I have available that are suitable as shop music. So much isn't. Vivaldi does well; Mozart; some Greek music; Nick Drake; and when I'm feeing rebelious, Leonard Cohen. (Sophie is getting tickets to his concert in Manchester - I am envious.) I can count on one hand pieces of music that have stirred me over my lifetime: the Misa Luba in 'If' is one. Stravinsky's Firebird is another (but that really is not good for wallpaper music in the shop!!) Maybe I should get some of the theme tunes from films. They are usually soothing, soporific and self effacing enough, because they are created to give background mood rather than dominate a space I suppose.

Glen said some interesting things about the Book Fair, likening it to a ritual gathering of booksellers. These days I think that might be a reasonable comment. The Fairs started off as an opportunity for traders to try plying their wares in other places than their own, but that's hardly necessary any more. It is so easy to sell on the internet. Why go to all the trouble of lugging the things around? Having said that, it must still be viable because people like John Marin does fairs and doesn't trouble with the net. Horses for courses probably. Drif had some acid things to say about "bookfairies.'

Drif:

"Bookfairies are beings who strip secondhand bookshops of the most obvious fruit which they then attempt to sell to other locusts who swarm at bookfairs.

The good news is that they invariably fail, the bad news is that it does not stop them breeding.

Bookfairs are like the froth on a glass of beer. It is the most obvious feature and the first part that most people take any notice of, but it contains very little real liquidity and is only sustained by the action underneath - that is in secondhand bookshops.

And like locusts it is not so much the actual creatures as the number of them that is detrimental."
 

Easter snow

This is the earliest Easter since 1913 and it won't be this early again until 2160. A snowy and grey day but the snow hasn't settled here. I made the chocolate almond cake for Nick and we ate it with champagne as promised. Not a bad way to stay warm.

The big umbrella.

Sale!

Oh well now, that's an improvement. Suddenly a flurry of really good sales. It must have been the coffee.

No sale..

11.30 and not a single sale today. The wind is still strong, and snow makes the path slippery so I haven't opened the garage, which means there is nothing to entice the bargain hunter.

Bit boring really. It's Nick's birthday today but we are celebrating tomorrow with chocolate almond cake (if I get it made this evening!) and champagne. I look forward to that.

The Well of Inspiration is dry.

Maybe coffee is the answer......

Good Friday

And a very tempestuous day it is too. Gale force winds, sleet, snow, and when they let up, driving rain. The seagulls who have decided to pitch camp on the roof opposite my bedroom skylight are looking dispirited. They were beginning to mate and the females was practising sleeping huddled up next to the chimney pot where she will spend a month or so on her eggs. This morning it is all they can do to keep their bony little feet on the surface.

So this is the day when some remember the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus. In the past I have had various reactions to that sacrifice, mostly angry questions about why he should choose to do that therebye landing me with a load of guilt - I didn't ask for him to die for my sins. Come on! Time has mellowed these childish thoughts and these days I tend to the opinion that the historical figure that gave rise to tales of the Risen Lord was probably a political leader of some sort, possibly with a mystical vision of there being Something Beyond. Who knows? And how important is it? Except that the church has squeezed and manipulated people's minds for 2000 years on the basis of his story. The sacrifical aspect really appeals to some psyches. On the Amazon sellers communication board writes a woman who calls herself ''Mommasue.' She has a peculiar talent for irritating me, largely because she began her time posting there with cries of 'There is much darkness here but we can help to dispell that dark by bringing His presence.' and 'He is in the House!' Whilst also shouting loudly about the layabout immigrant population and the government's policy re immigration and posting some truly distasteful 'jokes' about blacks on benefit. At some point she had aroused so much aggression in the bosoms of others that she quit for a while, but now she's back, not with any apology, but wiser and sliding her way around the threads adding little comments, all nicey nicey, with lots of hugs and kisses for her chosen people. This week her contribution to a thread which had segued into a conversation about parenting and the responsibility of parents was to the effect that 'Sacrifical Parenting' (her capitals not mine) is the perfect way to go. Finally I had to respond. 'Oh dear! Your poor children. I imagine they would be happier without THAT load of guilt dumped on them.' She deleted her post (this is her self defense mechanism so no-one else can fire at her) and told me she didn't care enough about me to reply.

I do feel strongly, as any healthy person would, about causing anyone, let alone ones children, feelings of guilt. How can that possbly help them through their lives?

Having said all that I suppose I am reacting less to Mommasue than to Christianity and the Church for whom martyrdom is one sure way to heaven. it isn't only the Muslim extremists who believe that. My mother swallowed its message hook, line and sinker and it made her into an unhappy woman who was too afraid to speak her mind. What she really felt got held inside and festered. She had this terrible cancer inside her long before the physical cancer manifested. I hated her at some points in my life because her misery and guilt and disempowerment caused her to cling to me until she nearly drowned me along with her. Hating her (silently, privately, I could never have been even slightly angry with her outside the confines of my own thoughts) was a way of pulling myself out of that morass. If I had felt then the overwhelming sense of sorrow I have for her now I wouldn't have survived. The person I was then wasn't strong enough herself to know her own mind, her own truth and her own core being.

Well, that's an unexpected paeon for Good Friday.

-------------------------------------

I want to direct my energies into writing now. This journal is one of the daily disciplines I set myself to focus on that gaol. It limits me to writing the facts, or the perceived facts, of my daily life. It isn't, usually, the place where I would practise character development or scene setting or any of the other necessary tools of the fiction writer's trade. I do that elsewhere. This morning though it caused me to wonder how it would be to write a book backwards, in the way these blogs read backwards (which I normally find very annoying.) It might be something to experiment with.

By the way Sue - are you out there? Where is YOUR journal girl?! I bought an enormous umbrella at the book fair (this is not OT.) The A.B.A had had them made with their logo, in various colours, and were fed up with them hanging about the office so selling them for £10 each. Irrisistable. In this wind they are so huge even I would do a Mary Poppins to the Post Office. For some reason - maybe you can prompt me here) it reminded me of a recording we made at college when Sue pretended to be at the bottom of Wookey Hole and her little voice echoed up thinly from its cavernous depths... It must have included an umbrella to kick up that memory.

The mind, my mind, is a wondrous thing especially these days. Sheila tells me they are developing cannabis extract to ofset the onset of Alzheimers and she was looking forward to a jolly old age. Sadly Alan is on a cannabis extract programme already for the MS and says the effects are far from pleasant. It arrested the physical symptoms but when he tried to work up to the recommended dose made him paranoid, melancholic (which isn't at all like him) and so abstracted it was difficult for Margaret to get through to him. Trust the NHS to take the fun bit out of it!

Swops, cats and kaftans.

Well that worked out quite well. The ex-owner of Roland's 'Fencing' and Durer Woodcuts and County Histories & etc. wanted credit not cash. I was a bit worried that he would take all my easily saleable books and leave me with these titles which are for me rather less easy to match with the perfect partner. Happily he went for a Rackham which isn't in amazing condition and the Brown's Bible I have had since the beginnings of time (thanks be to my grandmother for buying it from a house sale many decades ago.) He did take a nice copy of the Ingoldsby Legends which is a shame, but there we are. A few other children's books I shan't miss went onto the pile and the exchange was made. I'm not sure why it seems so much less satisfactory doing a swop like this instead of spending money then getting it back later, but maybe it's my pride in the weekly score. I can comfort myself with the thought that I shall have some new titles to tempt my fellow traders at the next fairs.

Jane has booked us a hotel for the Festival. £50 a night and she says it's a good breakfast so that's something to look forward to. I found the photo of her new kitten on the net - Mab, a Devon Rex. She looks gorgeous. Biba the dog is already cowed into submission and the other cat is intrigued but grumpy. What fun to have this family of personalities. I would like to take a day off next week to visit. Maybe Tom will be back from Glasgow and shop-sit.

Jane and Bryn both said they would back me if necessary in my attempt to warn Red Umbrella about Mr. Toad. It was a surprise but I was grateful to hear approval and not condemnation for what I did. I'm not ashamed of myself. I did it knowing I was laying myself open to disapproval but feeling RU should have the chance of a heads up before getting in too far (if it's not already too late.) It would have been more meaningful coming from a man who could less easily be described as 'malicious' but this time it felt as if it was my turn. Mr Toad still owes Jane money and at least two other PBFA dealers I know of, which has given rise to the name DisaPierce.' As soon as they think they know where he is he has gone again! He continues to cause waves.

Donald rang yesterday. He didn't get to the fair because the school football team he coaches won its way to the final round and he was too busy celebrating. The celebrations seemed to have gone on for three nights at least. His bibliophile friend Ken Barclay couldn't believe it: - "But they're schoolboys! How can he be on a three day binge with schoolboys?" It seems the roistering was in the evenings with the parents and adult supporters. The manager of the Post Office down the road here was amongst them and said Donald was loking a bit green the next day! 'He said it was the food! We weren't so sure.'

If I do go to visit Ballater next week I'll offer to take Donald over with me. He loves the stories about Jane's menagerie.

I was envious of Glen's trip to the Russian exhibition. Hopefully it will inspire her to big splashy coloured hangings and I can buy one. (I'm ready for another big splashy coloured hanging Glen.)

Dinner with Karen and David was fun. They have recently returned from India and Morocco and Burma and goodness knows where else they have wandered to this winter. They look well despite their chilly return to a house without oil for the heating. It was a six day wait before Gleaner came to their rescue, during which time they went down with colds. Margaret and Alan were also there for the meal to celebrate David's 69th birthday and we had fun. Alan is a very witty chap who has MS to deal with but a very positive outlook on life in general. He's almost at the stage of needing a wheel chair and is using the shopmobility chariots whch he says are fun but have no brakes! The Inverness ones can be taken round the town and along the river walks which is really nice for him, and for Margaret and their dog. They are moving from their present house so they will be nearer to the town, on one level and without garden. It could be a sad move but they are very cheery and positive about it. Planning ahead he recently sold me more of his books. They sell well because he was a sex therapist. The text books are recent enough to still be used for courses and the erotica that he had on hand, as it were, is always a goer!

Karen brought us all back presents. A beautifully embroidered jacket for Alan which looked excellent on him and silk kaftans for Margaret and I. M's is purples and orange. Mine is in aquamarine with swirly hues of blue. Very cool. We were royally dined on roast duck quarters, or salmon in paper parcels (for Margaret who is a piscatarian.) The duck was wonderful; I wish I had some right now. Must be coffee time again!

That will make my third today.

Ox-gall.

I've spent quite a large portion of the morning reading a book about marbling paper. it's not as simple as I had thought - sort of swirlng the colours around on a wet piece of paper as for Steiner veil painting won't do it at all! Although in the 12th century the Japanese did it with paint drop onto clear water, adding a drop of colour, waiting for it to spread, dropping another colour into the centre and adding different colours into the concentric cirles until the desired combination was reached then pulling a slightly greasey human hair or a chop-stick through it. The paper is lowered onto the surface and withdrawn carefully with the imprint remaining. Each paper has to be done separately of course. This method is still used in Japan. Painstaking stuff. In Persia in the 15th Century gum tragacanth was used to make a size and the bile of the ox - ox gall - used to break up the viscosity of the size. Later they used egg white. In the 19th century a Budhapest marbler discovered that carragheen moss made a good size and his method became widely used. Different amounts of gall dripped into the size are needed for different colours, even an extra drop making a difference.

It sounds extremely complicated and I have much more respect for marbled end-papers than I had before. There was even a book published by an early C19 German marbler, Franz Weiss, called ' Mein Kampf mit der Ochsengalle.' Which means what it sounds as if it means!! A customer has just told me he knows someone local who does it - a Swiss lady. Well well.

And I have finally sold two books, both Folio Society, to a lady who thinks books might be a better investment than banks at the moment. She also obvioulsy loves them, doesn't have too much cash to spare and wanted to buy the half leather limited ed. Gullivers Travels but her husband was dragging his feet a bit. So, not a big sale but a pleasant interlude. Then a chap rang from the Shetland Isles. I had sold him a book on Amazon - a 1st of 'The Grey Gentlemen' by Michael Ende. He wanted a complete Edward Lear which, oh joy! I could tell him I have so a cheque will follow. Still, not an especially fiscally impressive score yet today.

No Surtees but...

Well, he hadn't wanted to let any of his books go but the wife was insisting. I think he hid the Surtees from her! Anyway he brought in an interesting set of boxes which included a copy of 'An Introductory Course of Fencing' by George Roland, a slim volume which can bear a respectable price. Also a private printing of all Durer's woodcuts in a hessian cover. The 'Hay and Straw Measurer' by John Steele, which I think I'll pass on to Richard, with a small book about sheep breeding, not worth much but of interest in the right quarters. The Memoirs of Queen Caroline in full calf but scruffy. Lots of Sotheby catalogues which don't fill me with glee. A few volumes of the Victoria History of the Counties of England and some of the more interesting Folio Society editions.... and so on. I'm feeling very grubby and sneezy as most of them (excepting the Folio's as usual) could do with a good clean.

There's a chap lurking in the fiction. He's been there for an hour. I suppose he's reading a book.

Earlier today I caught myself planning my retirement. It will probably pass but being all internet seemed like a desirable thing. I could walk on the beach, sit in cafés, go to the better auctions..... write.....

I'm restless.

It's spring.

Fickle fame.

I haven't been asked for C P Snow for years then a chap asks me for the whole works. Authors drop out of sight for a while but then something happens to cause a resurgence of interest in them. Giovanni Guareschi for instance; his long-suffering priest Don Camillo has risen out of obscurity. P was selling hardbacks for £1 when I worked in that shop. Now hardbacks on abebooks start at £5 without a dustjacket.

I am enjoying reading through the dozen or so 1960's Crime Club editions Yeoman Books brought to the Fair for me. Somehow much lighter than today's crime fiction; less psychology, less forensic detail, more plot. They aren't better, just different.

A woman rang me on her way home from the fair to say she meant to buy a book from me Saturday but forgot to come back to the stall so could I send it on. She has a very plummy voice. Three packages then to take to the P.Office, one a happy children's book going to Middle class, Middle England; the other a book of poetry by Meredith going to a State penitentiary in Indianapolis to the prisoner on death row. The third going to a Highly Sensitive Person, I suppose, since the title of the book is a guide for delicate souls.

And here comes the chap with the Surtees - maybe.

An enjoyable interlude.

It was fun and remarkably profitable. After all the usual expenses, a few modest purchases, and an extra night in the hotel I still came back with something worth putting into the piggy bank. I'm always amazed when I sell anything at all at the Edinburgh fairs - 80 dealers present, some from the biggest, longest established, poshest, antiquarian bookshops in Britain, yet still everyone stands a chance of finding a customer. The 'Recollections of Oscar Wilde' with the beautiful cover has gone to Ireland with a happy dealer (he really did seem pleased with it!) and my pocket is richer. Otherwise it was Gaelic & Doric poetry & Scottish books that went mainly. Some of the Dickens characters by 'Kyd' which have hung around here for a long time, and a couple of 1st ed. Diana Wynne Jones children's books. René Bull's Carmen will be with me for a bit longer which is no bad thing. I have to start collecting seriously for the week-long Edinburgh fair during the Edinburgh Festival, when Jane and I are going to cox-and-box stall holding for each other, taking some of Bryn's books for him. We got talked into it at the AGM in the fever of the moment. Lyon & Turnbull put on a good buffet supper for all the dealers and like locusts we left nothing in the dishes, in the glasses or on the sweet trays. Very hot, crowded and convivial it was too.

Some visitors wore interesting trousers.

My stall .... attracted more customers when Bruno Bisang was face outward.

My stall.....

But this worked too.

This is what a stall should look like.

Preparation

This is the moment when I wish I hadn't agreed to go to the Book Fair. It's such heavy work getting everything ready and into the car. Richard rang last eve to say that he will be there and to bring books on agriculture for him. He's out of luck. Jane will probably have something though. It was nice to hear him blethering on about this and that. He has been a good support to Chloë since they met at Ballater fair last year. The social aspect of these shindigs is really nice. The other pleasure is to meet the collectors and the folk who really appreciate books in all their aspects - their binding, the varying editions, their place in literature or in social history. A book fair is the one place I can enjoy the experience of folk browsing my stock knowing the value of what they handle and being pleasantly surprised at the prices rather than appalled, as they so often are in Forres High Street.

Irritatingly I shall be getting some books to look at next week that would have been good to take to the fair. A 1st ed. Surtees amongst them - the chap claims. Shouldn't count ones chickens.

Am I ready to release this book? Shall I take it to the book fair?

I don't understand how it is I can't be vegetarian. When I met these babes last summer, still in their incubators but already destined to be people's Christmas dinner, I really didn't know how Jane could do it. To rear then have killed creatures she had got friendly with, even to cook one herself seemed brutal. I felt like Alice when she met the pudding but felt it was a bit rude to eat it after being introduced. All nonsense of course. Jane is made of earthier, more sensible stuff. She saw to it that they had the very best life then were killed quickly and cleanly without time for fear. She even managed to gut them herself. I do admire that. Better than my effete, denial induced squeamishness. To come back to my first question and answer it - the reason I can't be vegetarian is the delicious smell of roasting bird. I would never have been able to resist.

Turds and turkeys

Tom called in to pass a Christopher Brookmayre on to me. Tom enjoys CB. The opening words to this one are "Jesus fuck" and it's all downhill from there. A whole chapter is spent describing a crime scene covered liberally with puke and a keek that 'it must have been a wrench for some proud father to leave behind.' All in heavy graphic Glaswegian. I'm not sure I have a strong enough stomach. Tom had also been listening to a program about the Edinburgh Book Fair on the radio, about who and what will be there. I don't think I got a mention. (!) All I can hope is that there are some nice folk who enjoy looking at the books worth tens of thousands of pounds, but are really happy to find me up a dark corner selling something they can actually afford.

The forecasted wind is finally reaching us. I had to help a very little old lady up the road. She had less weight than our Christmas turkey and was scared to let go of the railings. I would have been too in her position, happily I have more ballast. The Red Cross manageress broke her hip during one storm a few years back because she was thrown onto the ground by a gust of wind and hit a rock.

Thinking about turkeys (my mind is doing the butterfly tango today) I shall enjoy hearing more about Jane's turkeys whilst we are waiting for custom at the fair. Whereas the rest of us who had ordered our Christmas dinner from her flock of 30 hand-reared-from-the-egg, organic, free range beasts wolfed them down enthusiastically, Bryn and Marilyn paid for two but told Jane to keep them alive and offered to pay for grain for them. So Jane now has two large feathered pets, one of which likes to warm its wings by the wood-burning stove, to the disgust of Jane's cat.

Company

Just checked for my blog-mates as I do daily. I have 'sillyrabbit' next to me today, Zac in Melbourne, who describes himself as: 'middle weight, short and furry. fast and furious,' and has a nice picture of himself - apparently he's a large furry grey rabbit. Glenda, who has returned from a blowy holiday and feels better, praise be, is next to Russian 'Tanya,' dark and sultry. I can't understand a word of what Tanya has written but there is a photo of a very delectable man down the page a bit so I suppose she has fun.

I rely on Glen to tell me what to read as she reads more than I do. yesterday 'The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters' turned up in a charity shop and I might read that before I list it. It looks interesting. Sophie brought me 'Child 44' by Tom Smith but I foolishly listed it straight away and 15 minutes later it had sold. She is a bit afraid it is still pre-publication. There was a listing on Amazon but not created by them so I suppose listed by someone like Sophie who had got hold of a copy before it launched. Hey ho. She tells me it is an unpleasant story so although I enjoy crime novels probably it's not a bad one to have missed.

Tired.

Too much food too late - not good. I feel heavy. There's a funeral srrvice this morning in the church opposite the shop. There'll be less custom until that's over. Sometimes the mourners come in afterwards; sometimes the undertakers and chauffeurs come in whilst they are waiting for the service to finish. The shop is then eerily inhabited by black suits, still the outfit of choice for funerals here. Church goers on a Sunday wear suits and a few women even wear hats. No jeans or guitars in this part of the world. Proper respect. Or just habit.

Book people.

Good start to the day - the ordered books turned up as did my second pair of glasses. Todays orders where easy to find. The gods are kind.

It's been a busy morning in the shop so far - busy socially and not too bad financially. Firstly, my friend Kate brought in a Dutch author whose book about the life of Vivaldi she translated last year. She had never met him until this week although she had lived in his mind and words for the best part of twelve months. I would have known him for a dutchman anywhere because he was wearing the ubiquitous loden coat; also a wide brimmed suede hat which did rather make him stand out in Forres High Street early in the mornng. I NEARLY persuaded him to buy Motley's Dutch Republic in three nice little volumes bound by Bayntun, but he was on the look out for history books that covered the period of the next book he is about to write. This will touch on the members of the Kit-Kat club and their part in the Glorious Revolution 1689. As Wikipedia drily remarks: 'Secret political groups with dangerous agendas tend to be poorly documented.' Which should give him ample room for speculation and romancing. He bought as many books as added up to the price of the copies of Dutch Republic, most of them old, slightly tatty and of little interest to anyone but a specialist, so I was happy. Sophie and Kate talked about the editing and publishing of books, agents (Sophie has a friend who is a literary agent and she would quite like to work in the same field) then their own poetry and finally exchanged emails.

Then came Sheila, who I haven't seen for ages. Marriage seems to have removed her temporarily from the social round. She has gone back to living on her own, which amuses everyone and is really no surprise. John spends time with her but they are both too used to their own space and having things their own way to enjoy sharing. Lots of ways to have relationships these days.

As Sheila left, Edward, the chunky ebony coloured poet came into the shop. He recently arrived in this area, initiated a poetry competition and started a writing group from amongst the entrants. I like Edward a lot. He's very warm and seems to have a genuine interest in other people's work. He travels around the country giving readings and workshops and is very articulate about his own writing. I suppose that should be what one expects of a poet who is after all a wordsmith, but he is in direct contrast to Eileen, who has had one book of poetry published by an established publishing company and is putting together another collection for them to publish this year. She is much more reticent. Eileen submitted to magazines and was spotted by a publisher who asked to be sent more of her poems and eventually for enough to put together for the first book. I believe her when she says she was surprised.

Eileen struck up a friendship with an American author who came four years ago to be a presenter at a local Book & Arts Festival. She writes three or four books a year, each of which have a print run of 75000. She loves Scotland and sets her stories in the landscape which gives her an excuse to visit once or twice a year. She is attractive, vivacious and an incorrigable flirt, although a very nice cheerful one who makes it clear that she is happily married. The men who where on the Book Festival committee enjoyed having her around, very much enjoyed being flirted with and paid eager court to her. Their wives were NOT so happy about her I'm told. She wasn't invited back the next year, and when Eileen asked why her name wasn't on the programme the reason given was that she is a 'Mills & Boone' sort of author and not in the literary class the festival aspires to. I don't believe a word of it! I met her the year she gave a talk and she is great fun. She flirted with Mr Toad and got him all hot for a bit. He was quite put out because she was ringed round with suitors, but got some private time with her in his shop where she told him of the novel she proposed to write on the life of the Wolf of Badenoch, a local bad-boy hero who burned down Elgin cathedral in the fourteenth century. She was proposing to unite historical fact with re-incarnation and bodice-ripping, which has been done succesfully by quite a few very popular authors on Scottish themes and would be sure to go down well with the Scots-loving, re-incarnation loving Americans (probably not the Fundamentalists then!) Mariota, the Wolf's woman, would, in her present day incarnation, remember how she got the little scar on her knee when kneeling on rocks to give the Wolf oral sex whilst he was imprisoned for his crimes. I have yet to come across this book... I hope she wrote it.

Identity kit

Thinking back to that N. American Indian workshop I remembered that we were also supposed to make ourselves a shield that somehow embodied our being. Whilst all the women around me were taking pieces of material (in lieu of deer skin I suppose) framing it, sticking on feathers, moss, shiney stones, even embroidering motifs, I could think of nothing I wanted to do. In the end I bent some willow into a circle, tied it in place with rushes and left it empty. At the end of the afternoon there was a sharing and I listened whilst the women talked about their shields, for them the expression of their perceived strengths and weakness; their hopes and dreams. I couldn't think of anything to say about my willow circle. I didn't understand it but I was stubbornly satisfied with it. When I got home I hung it on the wall. It was significant and I wanted to brood on it. Then I left Belgium and it was left behind. Some years later I reread one of the Lynne Andrews books about shield-making and wondered if I would do differently if I had the chance to do the workshop again. On the whole I thought not. And I still think not. I might be better at talking about it now. The empty circle has the abililty to receive, to stay open. It keeps the future in potential limited only by the physical outline. I think it's a mistake to put form on ourselves or our dreams.

No customers. Lots of family. Lots of coffee. Lots of orders, two of which I can't find. I shall have to drop-ship. Sophie has brought me some books from the freebie shelf at the Penguin building where she is working now. Sometimes they are pre-publication proof copies which, frustratingly, can't be sold on Amazon. Not much other book stuff going on right now. I am getting psyched up for the Edinburgh fair. Spit and polish. Literally.

Sunday, sweet sunday...

If there is any question about it - the pictures are from'Rituals of Freemasonry' pub. Reeves (undated, C1868) Very uncomfortable the rituals look. Maybe that's where the idea for group discovery games came from.

Sunday usually turns out to be harder work than the rest of the week because there is so much domestic stuff to catch up with. I promised myself two days off a week this year but so far haven't felt I could take them. Today is packed with food; the sourcing, buying and preparation of it, because Sophie arrives this evening for a week away from London pollution. It gave me an excuse to go to M&S and the Phoenix, the Findhorn Foundation shop, as well as Tesco because Sophie not only is veggie but after years of miserable internal discomfort finally discovered she is wheat and dairy intolerant. It's a challenge. A good one though because it means I also will eat healthily for a week. The Phoenix wasn't open when I got there so I ambled up to the café to have a coffee and a delicacy which they call almond croissant but which doesn't bear much resemblace to a croissant. Too flat and too custardy. It is much more like a wonderful breakfast confection I ate daily for a week somewhere in Greece. Galatopita mi siropi possibly, although I'm not sure. Anyway, it was delicious and I shared it with a polite crow who asked nicely then took the piece away to eat very delicately with it wedged under his foot so he didn't have to gobble. I like crows, although I would hate to be on the end of an attack by that beak. Geordie used to tell me some nasty things about them which are no doubt true, but I shan't go into that right now! I like all birds as long as I don't have to touch them; feathers give me the heebies. About 23 years ago in Brussels I took part in a North American Indian workshop/ ritual whatever and called up my power beast. It was an eagle. Bit of a surprise that. I had expected a feline of some sort.

Full of good tastes and good will I ambled back down to the shop to find that it was only open for about an hour this day because the electricity had to go off for some arcane reason. Pity they hadn't let their customers know with a handy notice on the door. I threw stuff into a basket; wooden knick-knacks for young Finley whose second birthday it is next week, together with bars of very dark chocolate, soy puds and so on. Also a calendar, now half price. Somehow I never find a calendar I can bond with until the year is well under way. Then to Tesco for Bombay Sapphire gin, tonic, and a butternut squash which is about to become soup.

Jolly japes or - Rituals of Masonry?

Swing brother swing!

High jinks in the dorm?

Just had a lovely lunch... little bit tiddly..

2pm Saturday. Here they come. They can be the best customers of the week or just the noisiest! Pony tail is in now with his lady friend full of bonhomie. What was it someone said about the male pony tail? A penis you are allowed to swing in public.

...the process against Mr Robert Dalrymple.

'Case of the Synod of Moray in relation to The Process against Mr Robert Dalrymple Appellant.' It is written in preparation for the case and ends with a heartfelt paragraph by the four men who compiled it, they expressing their hope that the Venerable Assembly 'will not gve a sentence in this cause that may be constructed by the irreligious as a sanction rather than a discouragement to licentiousness.' "...... when, in this licentious age, single incontinence is by some deemed no moral evil, and by many but a very small crime: when the life and practice of the Ministers of religion are so narrowly observed, on purpose to discredit their doctrine, which is so little believed or attended to... '

It is easy to imagine a case nowadays being plead with the same heartfelt sentiments by the men who want to shore up their failing churches. Only these days it's more likely to be seminary boys or choir boys, who having been abused are 'coming 'out.' The fornication of a minister doesn't figure nearly so highly on the list of sins committed by men of the cloth that still interest the Daily Mail. Although I believe there was a case of adultery locally that made the nationals.

Now, how do I get to find out the end of the story? It already has flesh on its bones. The document is not at all in the dry legal style of these days. Certainly this weasely minister needed the 18th century book thrown at him, extra heavy with its long s's as it would have been. He had gone down the usual route of the cowardly, weak man who having used a woman, first tries to cover his tracks, then accuses her of being 'of ill repute' (as though that excused him his behaviour anyway?) and finally accused her of 'ruining his life.' So reminiscent of Mr Toad. Men like this don't need anyone else to ruin their lives for them, they can do it all by themselves, but they do need someone to blame.

The claim that Margaret Lee was a woman of 'ill repute' got Mr Robert hoist with his own petard since the father of the poor girl had, rather cunningly remonstrated with Dalrymple for letting her go without a 'character.' As though he knew nothing of the reason. Margaret had at this point left the area without telling anyone but her father had gone after her, found her ten miles away, and persuaded her to return with him to the family home. Thinking she had gone, eager to appease the father and to further expedite her disappearance, Dalrymple wrote a character for Margaret which stated there was no reason known for her departure - that is that she had not been dismissed for misconduct of any sort! Once he had this in his possession the wiley father revealed what that she was home and that he was disteressed to find his daughter pregnant. Dalrymple was forced to fall on this man's mercy to ask for her to be sent away. He offerd £6 (which was more than he had given Maragaret!) promising more in the future when she was set up in Newcastle (why Newcastle I wonder?) This was to be given in sterling; the Scots still having their own currency at this point. He had a friend - Coull, the minister at Edinkillie, who urged him to offer more but Dalrymple seems to have been confident the matter was settled and wrote a triumphant letter to Coull to say that no more would be heard on the subject.

The complete works.

First sale of the day, a complete set of the Waverly Novels to a well-fleshed chap of senior years with a sense of humour and a resentment toward his teachers for forcing Sir Walter on him in his school days. I'm very glad I didn't grow up in Scotland. Shakespeare and Chaucer are much preferable IMO and I'm glad to have had THEM foisted upon me, but I didn't say so. My goodness how well I have learned to hold my tongue when a sale is at stake! The well-fleshed chap is surprisingly well versed in Scott characters considering he didn't enjoy the books at the time and now enthusiastic to revisit Scotts' world, hence the bulk buy. Somehow - heaven knows how - we deviated to animal rights and a harangue from him which became testing for me to listen to in silence. He is a believer in 'The Good Book' where we are told that animals are put on this earth for our use. Which, according to him, includes sporting activities. Jolly nice of the Maker to think of our entertainment along with our nutritional needs!

He wasn't as bad as the large and very charismatic preacher from Alabama last summer who arrived with his numerous family members making the shop feel suddenly claustrophobically small. He asked as many Americans do, to be shown the oldest books in the store, specifically Bibles and all books about The Lord's Work. Unfortunately he glimpsed Welsh's 'Filfth' amongst the fiction and in a stentorian voice condemned the selling of it. Then, oh dear for his BP, he saw the Occult section! His daughter tactfully distracted him in time before he hauled me out to the ducking stool. (Alabama - Salem, Selma. The land of the burning cross.Tough folk to tangle with.) Happily for me the daughter had found a leatherbound copy of Fox's Book of Martyrs and was clutching it to her ecstatically. He looked at the price and offered me half. When I bridled he said 'Well, who else is going to buy it in this place?" The very sweet young girl hushed him and said in a conspiratorial aside that her father was a preacher and that they had grown up with these people, fondly indicating the Martyrs. Good grief! What a childhood! Secretly I was agreeing with him about the difficulty of selling the book easily. Martyrs just don't have the same cosy childhood glow round here as they have in Alabama so I told the daughter that I would reduce my price as a gesture of good will toward visitors to our little town.

When they had gone I counted my money which I found was a great consolation and helped to control the nausea the old bully had aroused.

There aren't many like him in this part of the world but there are one or two. The Wee Free's have their fair share and a Minister from one of the many Church of Scotland churches in this town used to put threatening notices up outside his church about the exclusivity of the Happy Afterlife club. 'Only those who believe in me..' etc. until he was challenged by a few well-read folk including a Christian Jew who took him to task in the local paper. The same Minister asked me once if I am Christian and when I said 'No' retorted that he would be 'sorry not to see me in the Hereafter.' some months later at a Fair Trade sale he apologised to me. 'No need' I told him loftily. 'No harm done.' It's not only Christians who can be smugly forgiving! The Minister for the curch opposite my shop, Barry by name, is a much more human soul. He was distressed last autumn when he had three RAF funerals in a row for men who had died in an accident in Afghanistan. What upset him most was that the chidren of the married ones had expected to see their fathers home again at precisely the time they were being interred. It was hard for the little ones to understand that a dad who often went away but always came back, this time wasn't going to. The RAF give them a good send off, with full military honours, a parade, and a fly past, for what good that does. I can't imagine what Barry finds to say to offer any comfort.

Whilst on the subject of the Church, I remembered today that I bought some manuscript pages from the record of a case bought before the Venerable Assembly ( Edinburgh 1762?) in relation to Mr Robert Dalrymple, Appellant. Mr. R D was a Minister of the Church at Dollas (Dallas) who got his domestic servant, one Margaret Lee, pregnant. Afraid of the consequences he tried to procure an abortion for her by sending a letter to the gardener on a local estate for a quantity of savin tree (now known as red cedar) which he infused with other herbs and gave her to drink 'for a considerable time.' Providence however defeated this 'criminal attempt' and she remained pregnant whereupon he attempted to persuade her father to take her away from the area and money was offered to facilitate this (£5 by the sound of it, raised to £6 and finally £60 under duress.) I think I'll spend the day re-reading it and making notes..

Inertia

There are books to list and things to do. Ink cartridges to replace. People to phone. I sit here doing nothing. I feel as if someone has poured lead into me. I wish I had a barometer; I'm sure this lethargy is something to do with atmospheric pressure. The temperature has risen to +10 and it's raining.

Desert Island Books

It's possible to read the whole of 'Siddhartha' on line. I wanted to find the line about asking the rhinocerus the meaning of life. Unfortunately Safari keeps quitting before I can complete the search. It's never Siddhartha that comes into the shop. I think people hang on to it whereas they are happy enough to release 'Narcissus and Goldmund' 'Demian' and so on. Next time it does turn up I shall keep it. I compile a list of Desert Island books from time to time and it doesn't change much. Doris Lessing's 'Children of Violence' sequence, which I suppose counts as five books. Wu Ch'eng En: 'Monkey.' 'Siddhartha' as already mentioned. 'Score' by Jilly Cooper (must have some light relief.) After that it vacillates with my mood. Evelyn Waugh. Phil Rickman. Catch 22. Ulysses - well, I'd have plenty of time, but is it worth the effort. The complete works of Reginald Hill? Not the classics. Not Dickens thank you very much. Most emphatically not Hardy. I will need something to make me laugh written by people who enjoy the language. I would have Shakespeare of course but would swop the Bible for something else - Bhagavad Ghita or the Vedas maybe. Or the Torah. Lots of volumes of poetry. T.S Eliot (and his plays of course) Dylan Thomas. Ted Hughes. Sylvia Plath. Roger McGough. Pablo Neruda.

Virginia Woolf probably wouldn't be included although she was important to me once. I re-read 'Orlando' recently because Nick and I watched the film together and I couldn't remember the book well enough to know how faithful they had been to it. Tilda Swanson who played Orlando is the wife of one of my best customers, Gentleman John. She was excellent in the role. In the end I decided the film carried the spirit of the book very well. There's a point, when Orlando has become a woman, that V goes into an indulgent chapter or three about literature and loses my attention. When I wrote my dissertation on her so many years ago I didn't realise that the book was a love letter to Vita Sackvile-West, or so V S-W's son claims. None of the learned crits I read at the time suggested that, unless I was too naive to pick it up. Nor did I know that it was published at the same time as a lesbian love story was banned in the US - mainly because VW had Orlando begin his/her existance as a man. Cunning old VW.

Chat rooms

The Amazon sellers connection board is sometimes a joy and often a nightmare. It's certainly more exciting than TV some evenings. It appears to be populated by the same mixture of people one might meet in any walk of life, with a slightly higher proportion of those who have chosen an isolating job selling on the internet because it's easier than trying to get on in the 'real' world. They start posting on the sellers boards, feel safe because they are hidden, and for a while think they are in the company of like minds, until someone says something that hurts or offends them. There are far more women than I had imagined from the seller names and quite a few suffering from loneliness, even those in marriages and with children. I can understand that. I still remember how wonderful it was to discover I still had an identity beyond the role of wife and mother. I started adding my penn'orth of thoughts into various Amazombie threads because I sit for hours in the shop with nothing much to do, but not because I am lonely, which makes me one of the lucky ones I guess. There's a lot of wit and good humour flying round on a good day. Recently people started to post pictures of themselves and I was surprised by my reaction to the faces that appeared. Prejudices that I hadn't had before about individuals I had met only through their words suddenly changed my feelings toward them. I'm not happy about that insight!!

I look from time to time at the bloggers alongside me here. Today I happened across 'Desperate Japanese Housewife' who writes in an odd mixture of French and English, posting pictures of her Barbie dolls in different outfits she has made. What a very strange world this has become! We can read about people's intimate fantasy lives almost as they are having the fantasy, see into each other's confusion of dreams and fears, and share our attempts to make meanings out of all that we consciously perceive around us.

I always wanted to be able to live beyond myself, beyond the cage that is my personality; to be able to walk into other people's minds and bodies; to experience what they experience. Now we can do it without extra-sensory faculties. It's quite awesome.

House call.

Just returned with a bag of books from the lady who rang yesterday. One of the most interesting thing about this job is the glimpses it gives into other people's lives. This lady could have been my mother in her declining years. A beautifully kept house, looking newly decorated, with everything in its place and well dusted. A collection of cow creamers that were very sweet. Plants everywhere in healthy perky happy condition. She is not a readerherself so what I was being offered were the books left on the shelves by her husband who died ten years ago. Happily they were also in excellent condition and he liked his local history. Sadly (for me) her daughter had advised her not to part with the ones that would have fetched most money. Still I was pleased with what I found and I think she must have been pleased with my offer because she gave me another pile, almost double the number I had bought, for free.

A better experience than the last house call I had in Elgin. I was dubious but said I would go because there was already a house call for that afternoon in the same area. I became more dubious when I found the place, a small bungalow with a scruffy external aspect, peeling windows, garbage round the garden. The door was opened by an obese woman leaning heavily on a stick; stuffy heat full of body odour wafted out with her. She led me into a tiny, very hot, living room filled with an even more obese man spilling over a chair, smoking. Neither of this unlovely pair were very old - fifty maybe, but evidently they classed themselves amongst the disabled judging by the number of 'helping hands' propped around. The main feature of the room was the enormous TV screen where an afternoon soap was playing. The sound was turned down slightly in my honour. The man waved me toward a tiny bookcase uncomfortably close beside him where the 'lots of good books in brill condition' that he had talked about on the phone where stacked higgeldy piggeldy. I had, as I always do, checked titles and tried to get an idea of his 'collection.' I hadn't been careful enough this time. Reader's Digest mainly and not interesting ones at that. To get close enough to look at the others I would have had to practically sit on his knee because he clearly wasn't going to move. His wife sat down with a squelch in her chair to watch me. I viewed the books from a distance and said, as politely as possible, that I didn't think I could make him an offer on them. He huffed disgustedly and flicked ash in my direction. 'Then you're wasting our time. Let her out!'

I got out as fast as I could, somehow sure that my Englishness would be held to blame.

The other call that day was MUCH better. A couple about to emigrate to Oman. Lots of really interesting books. Tea and biscuits provided. Even a glass of wine offered once business was transacted. Now that's how to treat a book dealer.

I really prefer acryllic.

I've been hearing about the special bug-bear of the proprietress of a ladies' clothing shop in town. Once a month for 14 years, regular as clock-work, she has been visited by a woman, size 22, who goes through all the tops on the rails carefully, slowly, then tries on anything that might, at a stretch, fit. To the detriment of the stock. She then says, pulling her own top back on with a sigh: 'Really I prefer these acryllic ones you know.'

She has never, in all these years, bought a single garment from the shop.

I've brought in a couple of books for you...

This means that they want to buy a book but not pay for it. If I wanted to run a swop shop I would open one. Now if one of the books had been the Annals of Forres I might have stretched a point. I have sold three in the last year but still have a waiting list.

The Post Office

Sing Gloria Hosannas to the Royal Mail! They can get a letter from Central London to Orkney in 24 hours. For instance. It's difficult to believe that they are running at a loss though, when I see the number of people standing in the queue to send off internet orders. Of course they have to defray the expense incurred getting that letter to the island. (If I remember aright it touches down at RAF Kinloss at 4am when the weather is rough.) The rat catcher was in the queue ahead of me this morning with his Amazon orders, very jovial because he's off to Aboyne to an estate that has recently engaged his services. He hopes the neighbouring estates will also employ him when he does a good job. The extra business will pay for the landrover he so badly wants. So I suppose the book trade isn't bringing in as much as pest control yet.

The couple who took over the Post Office and the shop that shelters it are from Fochabers. When they realised it was books I was dealing in they asked me if I knew Donald! He was their headmaster. I told D about them and he laughed heartily, remembering them as a very young couple holding hands behind the bike sheds and in the corridors between classes. How nice when childhood sweethearts marry and stay together. This couple have two or three grown children now who help them in the shop.

It got me thinking of my own schooldays' sweetheart. We didn't stay together but it lasted two years hot and heavy. There were a few of us coupled up in the Sixth form who were so uninhibited in our behaviour as to cause the headmaster to make a ruling for 'No canoodling on the Fambridge Road side' which was the side of our beautiful green playing field edged with chestnut trees where the grass was left to grow longer. The Fambridge road side was also overlooked by some of the most up-market houses in the town and no doubt school governers lived there. I tried to link up with Derek once on Friends Reunited. The only connections I made were with females who had maried, moved about ten miles away and had children. End of story. I changed my email address to escape. There was more fun to be had on the dating link. One chap I talked to for a while sent me a photo - only it wasn't of his face!

Ways to get custom

The surest way to get customers into the shop is to get dressed up in my coat and hat ready to take my parcels to the Post Office. The other way is to go to the lavatory. The arrival of friends for a chat is always accompanied by the arrival of customers who need lots of help.

I was on my way to the post this time with a bag of orders when a chap came in. So I sat down to write this instead. One of the ordered books weighs VERY heavy and was a blight to wrap. Huge paperbacks should not be allowed, they flop everywhere as I try to capture them into wrapping paper; they slide around on the bubble wrap and wriggle when I attempt to seal the Novia wrap. This one is 'Physics for University' and is on its way to a University, which also gives me cause for worry. More parcels sent to campuses go 'missing' than to any other section of the population. There's one now not arriving on a campus in Ireland. I bet it has. It just got put to use in the porter's lodge propping up a table.

Youth of today.

AH called in yesterday to find a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Her daughter is auditioning in London next week for the part of Alice in a new film. The daughter's 16th birthday is Sunday next and her agent had already rung her to ask if she would fly to LA for a modelling job that day - the first day she is legally able to work as a model. Jeepers! She couldn't go because she is at a school of music near Aberdeen and has to play in a concert so the Alice audition is a sort of consolation prize.

I found a copy of Alice for her at a reasonable price luckily (the daughter isn't coining it yet then?) but the request brought me face to face with the loss of my children's paperbacks. I was glad to sell them off after Christmas because I needed the space, but if I were to have to decide which sections sell best in here it would be: local history, Scottish general, children's, history. Maybe not in that order. History sems to be selling fast at the moment. I still have the 'collectable' children's books but they don't provide for the child coming in who wants a book to read, it provides for the granny who wants to buy her grandchild a book SHE loved. I might phase out one of the other sections to make room for the paperbacks again. The mother-and-daughter combo who want to open a secondhand bookshop selling children's books in Forres haven't managed to find a shop cheap enough to rent sadly. The ex-florist's was on the market at over £1000 a month. Crazy for that small space in this small town. Probably hoping from help from Higher Powers 'Divine Light' has opened there with resin statues of Buddha, healing crystals and dream catchers (surely bit passé by now, and more powerful if one makes ones own I have been told.) I give it 6 months to a year. This isn't Glastonbury. Yet. I wonder if the butcher's wife will go in and welcome them as she welcomed me? "Oh aye, well.... it's such a shame to see the High Street being taken over by incomers.'

This is my favourite book cover at the moment. Nonesuch Press. The content is a bit disappointing. No pictures.

This is how I would like to look. Carmen by René Bull. Can't you just hear the music?

Well that's a normal bad hair day.

Glen's blog.

Glen has started up her blog again. I loathe the word. (What else can we call it Glen?) Her writing is beautiful. Words creating pictures, as she does with her materials. Suddenly I see all the blogs - all the lives - as an enormous, unimaginably enormous, collage of the human race.

The same only shorter.

Well that's fine then. It looks the same only shorter! A hairdresser who listens to the end of the sentence. I enjoyed hearing the conversations going on around me in the salon. Very cosmopolitan for a small town. A young woman who had recently been proposed to in NY Central Park whilst on a ride. A chap who had come back from a holiday in Japan was comparing it as it is now to how it had been when he lived there years ago. A woman from California was talking amusingly about cockroaches. She had a nice accent. I remembered my good friend Frances, now dead, who was born in Montrose then moved to the USA. Her soft Scottish accent had picked up on the rolling 'r' of California making her voice even rounder and more musical. On the way to the hairdressers I stopped in Macleans for a hot sausage roll and coffee (which I expected to be terrible as it used to be, but their coffee has improved along with with their refurbishment.) I enjoyed hearing the talk washing around me there too; not for the content but for the sound. It gets more difficult as one travels south to enjoy people's voices. The further south the more difficult; it's really noticeable on a train journey. There are ugly north of England accents too - Lancashire isn't beautiful. George Formby. Cringe.

On the minus side: Apart from the danger one is in, the other bad thing about hairdressers is the amount of time one has to spend in front of the mirror. I would really rather keep my illusions abut my face these days, and not see too much of it!

Whilst I was away Tom took the four boxes of Scifi and seemed very pleased with them. He will swop some, put some on the Lett's shelf (wherever that is) which will earn him a few Lett's, and generally distribute them so that's really good. Everyone's a winner. There was also a call from an old lady in Elgin who wants to sell some books on Morayshire. Sounds promising but one daren't raise hopes too high. She quite probably has hers raised too for a good sale so we shall see.

In a small town it is impossible to walk up the street without bumping into someone for a chat. Today it was Alvin. We talked about Barry who he has heard from more than me of late. Barry was diagnosed with prostate cancer which had metastasised. He was put on hormones which caused him to begin to grow breasts, and they gave him two years to live. At first it really knocked him sideways and he was understandably scared. Then he did a breathwork session - he has always been convinced by its healing properties, both emotionally and physically, but he has never been challenged like this before. During the session he says he had a change of attitude toward the cancer and the diagnosis and, I suppose, death. The next time he went for blood tests ) the one that shows if cancer is present, I forget what it is called) had dropped from way over the 'normal' line to normal again. He has stopped taking the hormones and feels fine, looks great by all accounts, and is in very good spirits. Fantastic!

I totally belive that all illness, all everything really, is in our heads, but it's one thing to believe that and another to swing the balance in oneself.

Plus and minus

No daughter to share the second coffee with this morning because she's off to Lossie. I miss having an early morning chat with her. Am I getting dependent here? That's bad if so. She's good company and a good listener which is something that can't be said about many people.
I woke up and got up in one swift shocked movement, hearing the garbage men in the street. If I miss the fortnghtly collection the bin begins to stink. I still can't believe they have cut it down to once a fortnight. The alternative week it is the turn of the brown bin for garden refuse; mine goes out about four times a year. I don't have a compost pile. Lots of people don't. Maybe they should but they don't. Whatever the rights and wrong the result on this morning was I had to run downstairs in my nightdress to shove out the bin. Can't leave it out all night or it makes ammunition for the drunks and the cheeky youth that haunt these streets till the sun comes back up.
The result of this precipitous exit from a deep sleep was shaky limbs and a feeling of dislocation I haven't yet shaken off.

There are good things and bad things to be anticipated in this day. They are the same things, just different sides of the coin. I am to have a hair cut. That's a Good thing. I need it cut. But having my hair cut makes me nervous, especially as this is a new-to-me hair dresser. So many have their own idea of what the head in the mirror should look like. They mostly fail to see the body beneath. Which means there are too many heavy women (I number myself sadly amongst them now) walking around with neat small heads. Not good. Also the women with heavy faces with really short cuts that make them look like bull dikes. Maybe they are but I doubt it; grannies like me probably. No, I am nervous in the hairdressers. My palms sweat. especially when they get to my fringe which makes all hairdressers edgey. They know it's not right. It should be shorter or I shouldn't have one at all at my age. I have to tell them that before I could give up my fringe I would need a year's counselling and that would be expensive. I tell them the story of the deliveries of my babies; when the nurse wiped my brow and I panicked because she was sweeping back my fringe. I feel I have had a good cut when I come away from the hairdresser looking almost the same as when I went in, just neater.
Tom is coming in to look after the shop whilst I go through this ordeal. I hope he will also take some of this pile of Sci-fi off my hands. He likes to ebay small thin paperbacks that he can slip into jiffy bag. So far, with some green band Penguin crime he has made a very small profit which certainly won't excite the tax man but which pleases Tom because he is 'getting going again.' He is never well after a dose of Lyme's Disease years ago and an on-going lung condition that his mother also had and which in her case turned into cancer. She died two years ago and it seemed to take Tom a while to get his gentle sense of humour back to full capacity. He even stopped going for his 'medicine,' a pint of real ale at the Beastie which he would order, sup a little, then leave to settle whilst he wandered around the town checking the charity shops and pasing the time of day here. I'm glad to see him back to his old habits. He's good with the locals, talks with their accent unlike me with my incomer voice.
The other plus and minus is having these 4 boxes sitting here to deal with in a very restricted space. I shall re-read drif's comment on the size of bookshops to cheer me up.

Sci-fi

4 boxes of sci-fi and sci-fantasy arrived. I could have turned them away but saw Terry Pratchett & Anne McCaffrey recurring throughout, also, strangely, Nigel Tranter. There is already a customer for the McCaffreys and the Pratchetts. So here they sit beside me blocking the way.

Talking about ways, Mr Signcraft came to put the new sign up on the side door to tell the world Chloë is here too. He put an 'etched' sign on the glass door of the conservatory whch is now also her waiting room, and a sign to tell people that they should keep walking past the door in the middle of the building. But there he has failed us. That signs reads 'Back in Balance' and that's it. He forgot to put an arrow at the bottom of it and now they will all knock at my sealed off door. Nice man but he never listens to the end of the sentence. My printer has run out of ink so it's going to be a handcrafted arrow there for tomorrow.

It's snowing a little in with the rain so I think that's the end of trade for the day. The High Street looks dreich. Not sure what to watch this evening now I don't have Die Zweite Heimat any more. A big gap in my life.

Pay day?

Well, what a surprise. A busy Monday morning. I think folk must have been paid. Lots - 10, that's lots for me - of Amazon orders too. Good kick-off to the week. This shop will never be in Bryn's league sadly but Ballater is a very different town. No charity shops for a start and a weekly turn-over of well-heeled tourists coming to their time-share at the Hilton. I am content to see the average weekly score continue to rise although I find it surprising. I thought I would reach a ceiling before now. More expensive books dominating the stock doesn't seem to have put people off and for the increased takings I have less chit chat! There's never room for complacency though. Could be terrible next week. In fact for me the worst time of the year is approaching. April-May-June have always been slow.
More space would be good but this way I don't have to buy shelf-fillers, can pick out the good stuff from what I'm offered, keep the selection fresh and not get so bored with my stock. I take heart from what drif said: in his infamous guide: "I only acknowledge three sizes of bookshops, small, medium and large. In my experience the size of a secondhand bookshop is in inverse proportion to its quality. It is not always true that small bookshops are good but it is invariably the case that large bookshops are bad and the larger they are the worse they are." I suppose Charles Leakey must have come across that. Wonder what his comment would be.

Second coffee.

"Let us overcome the angry man with gentleness, the evil man with goodness, the miser with generosity, the liar with truth."

I am constantly amazed at the collective wisdom the human race possesses yet we continue to mess things up. On the shelves in this shop are the distilled thoughts of so many wise beings, some who lived in the 3rd millennium BCE. The quick answer might be that we all have to go round the wheel to find truth for ourselves, often re-inventing the wheel many times as we go! I once burnt a stack of journals I had written over a five year period. Before I burnt them I started to re-read them until I got too depressed to continue. So much wisdom in them. Where had these flashes of self-knowledge gone when they met my everyday life? Vanished like a candle flame in the sun.

Which is shining today. A frosty beautiful start to the week. What will it bring? Well first of all, with the postman, a nice copy of 'The Nowadays Fairy Book' by Anna Alice Chapin with illustrations by Jessie Willcox Smith that I won for a pittance on ebay. JWS was an interesting woman with definite opinions:
" A woman’s sphere is as sharply defined as a man’s. If she elects to be a housewife and mother—that is her sphere, and no other. Circumstance may, but volition should not, lead her from it.
If on the other hand she elects to go into business or the arts, she must sacrifice motherhood in order to fill successfully her chosen sphere.”
I suppose she was a product of her times, late Victorian, but I don't think many women would agree with her today. Part of me does, against all the evidence that women now triumphantly do both.
Better get on with some picking and packing.

Can you find a book for my old dad?

Chap came barrelling in smelling slightly alcoholic but cheery. 'My old dad's the oldest of the original residents in our village and he's got to go into hospital. Can you you find me a book for him?" "We have these books about your village. "Nah. He knows all that.' 'Er... what sort of thing does he read then?' "He was in the war on one of those boats defending us like.' 'Something from this section then? ' I'm pointing to Naval history, WW2. I pull out one with an exciting looking picture of a destroyer on the front. 'Nah. He knows about the war see. He was in it.' Oh. Right. 'He likes gardening.' I guide him to the gardening books. 'Nah. He knows all about that.' I point out books about wildllife and the natural world. Nice to read about when you're stuck in a stuffy ward. 'Nah. He knows all that.' 'Oh yes. Of course. Um....?' I'm floundering a bit now. 'He doesn't like cats either.' Well, that came out of left field as they say, but I took it on the chin and picked out Tarka the Otter. 'Does he like otters.' 'Nah. Too many of 'em. They eat all the fish.' There's a clue here. 'Ah! He's a fisherman. What about a book about fishing.' "Nah. He knows all about that." I'm getting desperate now but the chap is still standing there looking at me hopefully. 'What about a Western?" 'Oh aye. Where are they then?" I show him. 'He's read all them.' Well, that was predictable but the Westerns are next to the books about naughty Victorian school girls and French Mistresses. I see my customers' eyes sliding in that direction. 'Shall I just let you browse then?' I ask tactfully. 'Oh aye. Right.' He's there a long time. He buys ten paperbacks from that section. Should I worry about the nurses? Or the old boys BP? Or will Dad not get these books at all. Maybe they'll think a bag of grapes is more suitable.