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.