The Creation of Mr. Toad (the Wind in the Willows anti-hero)

This doesn't really do Toad justice but it's the best I can find just now. I found the following rather sad account of the creation of Toad from Times On Line (abridged)

The secret code of Toad

Olivia Cole

FOR bumptious self-importance, Toad of Toad Hall has few equals. Now letters going on display for the first time show how Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in The Willows, created the character as a cautionary tale for his wayward son Alastair.

Toad, known for his love of fast cars and the sound of his own voice, constantly gets into trouble, including being jailed, but always bounces back.

Chris Fletcher, curator of the display (in the Bodleian Library) , said: “The story of the errant Toad receiving moral instruction from the stern but big-hearted Badger is clearly designed to teach the badly behaved Alastair the difference between right and wrong.”

At the time of the letters Alastair was just seven but had already drawn an official complaint from park-keepers near the family home in London for kicking little girls.

They are addressed “My Dearest Mouse” — Grahame’s nickname for his son — and were sent while the boy was on holiday in Littlehampton with his nanny. He had refused to go unless his father sent stories.

During the summer, Alastair wrote to his parents from Littlehampton: “I have made a vow that I will run away to the Stage!!! as soon as I can!!!”

The last letter from his father, written in September, appears to gently mock Alastair’s intentions. In it Rat, Mole and Badger refuse to let Toad star in an evening of entertainment he has planned, with himself as the star turn, but admit they feel like “brutes” for squashing his plans.

The tales end with Toad resolving to be better, but Grahame once said: “Toad never really reformed; he was by nature incapable of it. But the subject is a painful one to pursue.”

Alastair’s troubled nature did not lead to a storybook ending either. He committed suicide two days short of his 20th birthday while a student at Oxford, throwing himself in front of a train.

The Naming of Toad

Since trade is slow just now I’ve decided to spread my eggs into other baskets starting with ebay. I put some into auction last week and have opend an ebay shop. Now I hear ebay Italy is closing the shops and It is predicted that ebay UK will follow. Oh well. I think there will be still some sort of way for sellers to put books on at ‘Buy Now’ prices that will come up in searches and so on. Amazon closed their shops way back which wasn’t a bad thing as I don’t think I ever sold anything from mine. We can make our own listings now for obscure titles so it isn’t necessary. It’s all rather dull but has to be done to keep the money coming in. I don’t understand sellers who complain about trade but do nothing to maximise their chances - I'm thinking here of a colleague in the business who can't be bothered to use the wonderful outlet that the internet provides and wastes time complaining about missing Mr Toad dreadfully because he can’t move his books on as he used to when that voracious bookbuyer stalked these wards.

Mr Toad had the reputation hereabouts for buying anything and everything. He’s missed by many as a quick source of income. If the cheques didn’t bounce of course. Since this is another dull day and raining to boot I think this is the time to give the story that led to:

The Naming of Mr. Toad.

There once was a Naughty Book Dealer who couldn’t say no to books. One day he went to look at the books left by an elderly gentleman who had just died. The books were moderately interesting but there were many a less acquisitive bookseller would have said no to and they could easily have gone to the recycling yard. Some of them were in a in a not-very-nice bookcase which had a glass front. Now the naughty bookdealer wanted a bookcas ewith glass doors because all smart bookshops have glass fronted cases in which they keep their valuable tomes. Having such a bookcase would therefore be , in the eyes of NBD a symbol of his position as a real player in this bookselling game. In an excess of enthusiasm he offered a sum which was more than the books and the bookcase were worth and it was accepted. NBD was very pleased when the six heirs agreed to have a cheque each, thereby giving them immediate access (or so they naively thought) to their share. NBD on the other hand saw this as staggering the flood of cheques into his account, which of course at this point didn’t have enough money to cover the purchase. He went home happy. The heirs drove away to their homes in southern England, also happy. For the moment.

The six cheques bounced. There were polite phone calls and the cheques were re-presented. They bounced again. All of them. This bouncing costs a lot - about £30 per cheque on a business account I think, but no matter. NBD doesn’t count this sort of cost; he had the books and the dilapidated bookcase. The phone calls became rather more acrimonious and as the first generation descendants lived 600 miles away there was talk of sending in a couple of grown-up sons to ‘collect.’ There was also talk of writing to the local newspaper and exposing him as a ... well, at the very least a conman. Worse threats may have followed; certainly a deadline was fixed and the NBD was for once moved enough to see something had to be done. One morning I was called up to fetch him away from the shop because the visit from the sons was imminent. When I got there a car with two large strapping looking lads had been seen in the vicinity. It was arranged that a friend would mind the store for the day, holding them at bay, until NBD could return with the money. I seriously misdoubted his ability to find it but my remit was, since I had no money to contribute, simply to be chauffeur and not offer opinons. He slunk out of the house crouched low and slid into my car, keeping his face averted from the road. From the corner of my eye I saw him reach back to grab something. My pink fluffy beret had been lying on the back seat, he pulled this over his bald head and I drove away with my ‘female’ companion sitting rather low in the seat beside me. Anyone who has read ‘Wind in the Willows’ will remember Toad’s escape from prison as a washerwoman. From that moment I could never think of NBD in any other role.

From the sanctuary of my home he phoned around mates, relatives and acquaintances; he approached other High Street shop owners, asked his barber if he could help him out... and amazingly people came through for him. We drove back just as the two young oxen loomed through the doorway for the last time.

Mr. Toad (in Wind in the Willows) has another trait which is reminiscent of NBD. He is often very remorseful. He can even become depressed when he thinks of his wrongdoings. However, the moment he gets out of prison (or debt) he is crowing again, (rather like the irrepressible Peter Pan) ‘Oh the cleverness of me’ and is glowing with success again; the cleverest chap ever. With a cheery "Toot Toot!" he is off and away again.

From this school of learning it was that I gleaned skills as a bookdealer. The first lesson: don’t buy if you don’t have the money in the bank. The second: don’t pay too much for books; if the seller doesn’t like your offer there will be more offered tomorrow.

A special place in Hell.

There should be a special place in Hell for people who use cellotape to tape the dustjacket to the boards! Also, an outer circle (therefore slightly less hot but still uncomfortable) for those who use it to repair tears to pages or the dustjacket. I've just spent two hours trying to get the revolting stuff off a pile of Scottish Mountaineering Club books. It goes yellow and accumulates dust round its edges; it also get tacky if the books have been in a damp place as these unfortunately had. I went outside to do it but I'm still suffering from fumes from the lighter fuel.

The Window Display

My window displays change weekly and they always attract a sale or too, but never have they had as much success as this one. After I oiled the bench in the early hours I remembered it was window-changing day and my mind went blank. There was no stock I wanted to display that hadn't already been displayed recently. I have done Valentines Day soft porn and relationship stuff; expensive photography books; Mind/Body/Spirit books; crime; sci-fi; Huntin'/Shootin'/ Fishin'; local history; Scottish History; Poetry; ridiculously expensive children's books (that is always popular because folk like to remember when they had a copy of 'that book you are asking all that money for but my mother/wife gave it away, the dog ate it, the neighbour went off with it, the baby was sick on it' etc. etc. etc.... ) What I have never bothered to put in is paperback fiction - there are those four darned charity shops in town - but for once, as I was stumped, I decided on Great British Fiction as my theme. Looking through the stock available the theme began to evolve until it became an homage to Penguin. Very smart it looked when finished, the black Penguin Classics in the forefront, older orange ones behind, but by 9.45 I had already sold three. One of which was a D.H.Lawrence and I'll swear I haven't sold any of his novels for two years. Since then two more in their black strip have gone. Blessings on you Penguin.

Early bird

5.30am saw me in the back yard spraying wood treatment oil onto a new garden bench. Who would believe what an acreage of untreated wood there is on a 5' bench. I have paint-sprayers' thumb and my hands (twice washed) still feel as if I had recently cleaned a saddle. My fingers are slipping on the keys. The bench looks brash and new now and not at all like the solid old lichen encrusted bench that was here before I moved in, which sadly went away with the previous owner. Never mind, by this time next year it will be greyish and blend in. The hardwood table I bought from Tesco before they stopped selling hardword by popular outcry, blends well enough to reassure the birds who sit on it. The bench isn't entirely off-topic as it will be the place I sit to wait for customers on fine days now that summer is coming on. They may have to come out there to find me if I don't hear the door bell. I leave a note to tell them to yell for me. My 'till' will be unprotected. It is a small drawer in a desk I bought for one of the children years ago. All very low tech. Needs no upkeep. The till at the newsagent has to be serviced once a month and that costs £35 each time. Even then it goes wrong. I have no way to process a credit card, which is not so good in the summer when visitors come by who want to use them, but I have resisted this extra piece of equiptment so far. Some think that's quaint. Some huff and puff.

This time of year we start to lose night. I woke at 5am because it was already bright, the birds singing away cheerfully. It is light now till 9pm . I think. the downside of being an early morning person is that I am asleep on the couch almost as soon as I have eaten my supper. I want to close the shop at 4pm because I'm completely past caring and longing to have a nap.

I think it's strange that there is no ceremony to bring back the darkness. The ancients feared to lose the sun yet the dark is important too.

I must start buying books again.

Self-employed

I was thinking about the trail of events and non-events that lead me into this occupation.

At the outset the urge to become a second-hand bookseller was no more or less than a need to fill in the time, preferably pleasurably but dedinatley with incentive. Knowing myself reasonably well I was (still am) aware that without a pressing reason to gt dressd in the morning I probably wouldn't and avoiding that situation seemd important. Once the children had finally left home and I was on my own and the world was my oyster I spent two weeks lying in front of videos. Buffy The Vampire Slayer to be honest. I bought them all. And very expensive they seemed too at the time. I retreated into a world of fantasy, of courageous acts, a mythical quest to seek good and fight evil, of companionship, humour, wit played out against a quite realistic backdrop of the struggle to deal with normal everyday events. Not my age group but I loved it then and still do. Reality crept in once or twice a day when I had to get up to change the video or get food, and I reviewed options. I didn’t want to work for Charity. I didn’t want to join in with the events the Findhorn Foundation have on offer. I didn’t want to... the list went on. Some days it was depressing. It did seem as if my life was over. I could see no future for myself because there was nothing I wanted to do.

One thing I had never done properly up to that time in my life was earn my own living. I had worked once as a teacher but never been convinced by my role, and rarely enjoyed it. I enjoyed the children, young adults in a couple of schools, juniors in the school I stayed in longest, but it was never a vocation. When Britain went into the Common Market ( the EU - what was it called at the time?) and my husband got a job in Brussels I was ready and happy to go. Fully anticipating a new life in a wider, more exciting pond. It didn’t work out that way for me but I had the babies there and earned my label as a mother. At one time I was fairly convinced that it was all about having a label. Like those name tags people so often wear these days so you can call them by their name or remember them if you need to complain. There was safety, I thought, in having a label. Nothing in my life had ever given me the need to feel safety was an issue but that’s how I felt. I think I inherited it from my mother. The fear of other people. The need to have an identity to hide behind. Being a mother served me well for over 20 years and now I was a grandmother, but it didn’t occupy my every day life. I was just an ageing woman without an identity. I was really scared I would just fade away because no-one was seeing me. I used to look in the glass a lot. It wasn’t just vanity. I might have faded. There is an episode in Buffy about a girl who is totally ignored at school both by her peers and by the teachers. She feels invisible and gradually she actually becomes invisible. From which point she also becomes vengeful. the ‘happy ending’ to that little tale is that the FBI/CIA take her to a school where there are other invisible young people all learning the arts of infiltration for political purposes, and assassination. I empathised with the girl but didn't want to become an assassin.

Once I had eliminated all the things I didn’t want to do I started to think about becoming a shopkeeper. I very much enjoyed taking bric-a-brac to car boot sales from time to time and running a shop had always been in my mind, maybe because my parents kept a village store when I was very young. That store stills lives in my imagination as a warm place full of interesting smells and a constantly changing parade of characters who came in for their supplies, everything from cheese to paraffin oil and Jaeger skirts. More of those reminiscences another day. Once I had suggested to my mother we might run a shop selling the silver she was so good at fashioning and the macramé that was my hobby at the time, but it wasn’t real. I searched around for something I would like to sell. Books suddenly came to mind. I started taking them to boot sales and did reasonably well with them. Then I remembered someone had told me about a secondhand bookshop in the area. Until the day I walked into the shop which was to become my -er - alma mater (? ) I had never been inside a secondhand bookshop before. This is not common amongst people who start selling books. Most have been collectors for years; know something about the trade because they have haunted the outlets that they hope will provide them with the volumes they are searching for. They know about tree calf and how hard vellum is to clean safely, even understand terms like half-bound and quarter bound; the meaning of 4to and 8to. They already love old books. I knew absolutely nothing of these things and rather disliked secondhand books which I associated with smoke-smelling, food stained library books.

Well, one thing led to another as the saying goes, and here I am. I have found a career I wish I had found many years ago when I was fitter and younger. Though I complain about the occasional customer and often emulate the grumpy eccentric vague architypical bookseller, I am really in the right place for me and finally wearing a label with pride. Most days.

The fun thing about being self-employed is the acquistion of money. That sounds obvious - fundamental even - but to me it is still an exhilerating experience and it's almost a game to see if one week can beat the score of the week before; if April this year can do better than April last year; if I can find the books that will turn browsers into customers. The money I take is the symbol of success rather than merely a way to pay the bills and get myself a bottle of wine.

To return to Buffy (it’s sad I know, but it has been such a part of the last few years) I laughed in recognition when Giles opened the Magic Box and made his first sale. He was almst gibbering with delight; ‘Did you see that? I gave then stuff and they paid me money!!” I SO understood how he felt.

Ten Dollar Words

It’s a glorious day today and I should be out there enjoying it instead of sitting here in my ‘On Duty’ position. I long for freedom the rest of the week and when I have it what do I do? return like a homing pigeon to the place of safety.

One reason for this return to the roost is the need to get down some thoughts. I have just read “A Quiet Belief in Angels” by R J Ellory which I did not enjoy, not one bit. I hated it; longed to get to the end so I could forget all about it, but I have to admit that it was very, very well written. The protagonist is a real person to me; the people around him, and the terrible tragedies are real, that’s why I hated it. That’s why I read Harry Potter again and again, and Phil Rickman. The first is pure escapism into a world where events however awful generally work out for the best, and there are a lot of laughs along the way; lots of good friendship. The world of Phil Rickman is folklore, the occult, mysticism, taking me into places I am familiar with but where I only half believe what I find there. He also surrounds me with likeable, even loveable characters that make it all in the end, feel manageable, even a bit cosy.

I need that. Real life is frightening enough without adding to the nightmares.

What I did like was the phrase: ‘the ten dollar word.’ This is either a Georgian description or an American one, of a fancy-shmancy , probably multi-syllabled, word. I like it. I will spend the day thinking of ten dollar words like: prestidigitation; exculpate; defenestrate. Impressive words, nouns or verbs, adverbs or adjectives, that polish up dull sentences.

Spellcheck can’t handle ‘defenestrate.’ I wonder, can I come up with any more words spellcheck can’t handle?

It only takes one good customer..

... and witness me cavorting around happily because the weekly score has just been boosted to an honourable amount.

Less happily the sale was of local books and I'll now have to source some more. Never mind. That's for next week. For this week I can celebrate.

webcam

My grandson has discovered the fun of webcam, which I don't have. So far I haven't had a use for it, but no doubt there will come a moment. That is the way I have progressed with most of the new communication technology; getting to know it when I found a use for it. When Sandy was born, nearly ten years ago, I was newly signed up to the internet and sending emails for the first time. Good gracious how things have advanced! I can see a future use for it to view my grandchildren in Cornwall rather than driving 600 miles.

I do have a friend who uses the webcam daily. She has a relationship with a chap who lives in Calgary, Canada. He works, in some capacity I'm not clear about, for an oil company which is how she met him. She lives in Aberdeen and he spends quite a bit of time there; they also meet up in the hot sandy places he has to travel to, and go for the occasional holiday together somewhere really exotic and beautiful. The relationship has endured several years pleasantly within these parameters but she claims it wouldn't if they tried living together. For one thing his mother doesn't like her - claims she's a hippy! This rather shook Kerry because she lived in juxtapostion with the Findhorn Foundation for enough years not to want to be associated with hippiedom. She also dresses rather oddly for a hippy; tight jeans and a little leather jacket, very fitted; very high-heeled pointy shoes. She thinks she earned the accusation (that's what it was in this case!) because she is vegetarian and the mother thinks that's a a hippie thing to be. She refused to have Christmas dinner with her son and 'that woman' because 'that woman' wouldn't cook a turkey. Kerry, who is very hard to offend or faze, said she would certainly have shoved a turkey in the oven for them and made all the trimmings for them too. The mother chose to stay away. Kerry hates Calgary so Ma doesn't have to put up with her often. The son is in his 50's but has never married, so never properly cut the apron strings.
Kerry is obvously fond of this chap but if he gets a bit depressing or boring during their evening chats by webcam she reaches under her desk and - oops! disconnects the line!! I bet some marriages would work better if the partners could disconnect each other when they get irritating.

I have never asked how they actually met, but I wonder if it was through Kerry's work. She gives colonic irrigation, so maybe NOT asking would be better. I remember meeting Kerry in the carpark of a Homebase store one day when she first started on this career. She had been looking for rubber piping and exuberantly related the details of the quest to the entertainment of passers-bye. Most of the piping the store had on offer was too stiff for the purpose she had in mind. She asked a young store attendant if there was any stock not on display. He tried to help but kept saying the softer piping wouldn't last so long and wasn't so suitable, so she told him what it had to be suitable for! She said she could see his butt cheeks tighten as his face cheeks reddened, poor lamb. A cheery chatty extrovert, Kerry used to be a nurse so is competent in these areas, but the installation of new plumbing recently nearly had her tearing out her abundantly thick and curly hair. I think it was a new pressure pump. The workmen who came to try to fix it kept getting it wrong amd the wrong pressure behind the water is not something you want to have in these circumstances. They were also seriously disturbed when they discovered what it was to be used for and she felt they left faster than they might otherwise have done!

Not exactly book-related anecdotes but there's not much happening round here that is at the moment!!

Lady Humdrum

Well, I have news for a friend of mine who lives in Drumduan Park, a little nest of 1960's housing, concrete boxes, all cheek-by-jowl, which she disparagingly calls Humdrum Park. There is (or was) a Lady Humdrum who wrote "Domestic Scenes: A Novel" and "Self-delusion, or, Adelaide D'Hauteroche: a tale" She was a C19 Scottish author whose real name was Mrs Alexander Blair. I think she had a good sense of humour and irony, as does my friend.

I found this interesting tid-bit whilst looking for the book Kate and I would like to see republished. This was also C19 written by Grace Ann Milne, the daughter of James Milne of Findhorn and the niece of D.H Falconer F.R.S. V.P.G.S. a renowned geologist and contemporary supporter of Darwin. Grace was maried briefly, then widowed and she also lost her infant son; understandably she spent some years aftre these unhappy events in a depression. To help her through the bad time her uncle took her travelling with him and awoke her interest in geology. They travelled abroad together and when they returned she ran his household, became his secretary and his companion. (From letters written between them it seems their relationship was more than just one of convenience.) Eventually she maried another geologist, Sir Joseph Prestwich and lived at Shoreham in Kent (which coincidentally is where a friend of mine lived for some years. Who said it was a small world?)

After her marriage and her move to England, she wrote 'The Harbour Bar: A Tale of Scottish Life,' possibly out of nostalgia for the village she had left behind. It is fictional but the characters she describes are almost recognisable in the Findhorn of today - not as specific individuals but as their essential ingredients. The houses and cottages she describes I also felt I could locate if I had tried hard enough. The story is a simple, classic tale of full lives, loss, wrong-doing and redemption. There are two families who figure most amongst the others; one is a fisherman's family with young children and hard working parents. The other is the lonely figure of an old sea captain who parts company with his only son over a matter of principle (as far as I can remember now, it's four years since I read it.) There are tragedies, like the accident that happened to the Edinburgh to Inverness stage coach causing loss of life. This is decsribed as happening on a recognisable stretch of road through beech woods near the then relatively new Dr. Grays' hospital in Elgin. There are lives lost at sea. These tragedies are set against a backdrop of normal life; children playing in the dunes and amongst the lanes between the cottages (as mine played when we lived there) men mending the nets; the fisher wives walking from Findhorn to Forres along the bay at low tide, to bring the catch to market. I think it has a lot to offer to folk of today who are suddenly more appreciative of their roots and past ways of living. The first time I read it I thought it would make an excellent film, and haven't changed my opinion on that.

Empty streets

The first time I went to the Post Office today I noticed that the High Street was quiet and counted the number of people I could see for the 200 yards or so visible from my door. There were 15 souls and some of them were involved in a funeral service that was about to happen in the church opposite. The next time I went to the PO I counted again - 7 human beings and a dog. Lots of seagulls.

Trade has been poor!!

Cross people.

Cross and snappy couple just in - probably cross with each other but taking it out on me. I don't like ordering books for people, especially in times of poor trade, because it's money going out of my account that takes time to get back in. Asking for the money up front is a way to get round this, although it often leads to trouble when the book turns out not to be in stock and I have to find another... This time I did ask for the cash and also added a bit for myself - £2. Not a big profit.
"So between you and the other seller this book is costing £5.50 more than it should then?"
"Not at all. The seller has to package and post it, and it looks like being a big book. I do have to ask for something to cover my time, the use of my bank card and phone calls."
'Well a phone call won't cost you that much and it hasn't taken you two minutes."
"You could order it yourself then to save having to pay me."
"I don't have a computer. Don't trust it. They can hack into your account you know. I'm not having that."
"Well that's the risk I am taking for you."
"Yes, but it's your business isn't it and you're getting a profit from me aren't you?"
"!"
I was speechless by this point. Eventually I unclenched my teeth far enough to ask him if he still wanted to order the book. Yes he did, so I ordered it, whilst he watched me mistrustfully. Then I had to repeat the bit about cash up front. Huffing loudly he dug in his pockets and brought out change which took ages to count. Then: "Well, are you going to give me a receipt then."
People are usually so grateful when I have ordered a book for them that they haven't been able to find anywhere else that they never think of asking for a receipt, but I wrote one with as much grace as I could muster. In the middle of all this the wife has barged past into Chloe's practice room (luckily she isn't working there today) ignoring the sign 'Back In Balance' on the door. When she found it didn't have books in she reacted as though it had been done deliberately to annoy her. Maybe she had wanted to go elsewhere for a cup of tea and been forced in here with her husband, although she didn't seem the sort to be forced anywhere.

And, oh dear, a boot has just opened on a car opposite the shop and a box appeared - I fear it is destined to come in here.....

This chap looks as if he is an escapee from Max and the Maxi Monsters

The Hound of the Hedges. Who looks like an animal version of the green man. I've never heard of this creature before.

A mysterious circus rolls into town by means of neither roads nor train. Its advertisement promises sights and wonders as yet unseen by mortal man. Its owner is a Dr. Lao, a Chinaman (perhaps) who sometimes speaks wonderful English and sometimes, when it suits him, pidgeon of the clumsiest. When there is a parade (that in no way lives up to the advertised glories of the Circus) the citizens of Abalone, Arizona find that contains a bizarre collection of myths, oddities, fables and lore . A chimera, werewolf, (that some think is a Russian) a satyr; the medusa who turns a disbelieving villager to stone; a unicorn; the Sphinx; Socrates; Apollonius, who performs magic tricks, materialising pigs and flowers ; the Golden Ass...

I haven’t finished reading it yet but it has a sensual, seductive richness about it that makes me want to be part of this surreal world, however dangerous.

David Maddox suggests that Finney could be gathering together the last remnants of the Age of Fable that succumbed to the Age of Reason and wiped out such dreams.

This is an extraordinary book of fantasy and philosophy. It's included on some of the sci-fi sites surprisingly. The illustrations in this copy are not the ones usually associated with it but are by one Gordon Noel Fish and the dust jacket blurb declares them to be: 'serious studies in the art of the grotesque.' Grotesque they certainly are but - a serious study? Sounds a bit like one for pseuds corner to me.

Trouble staying awake.

I keep nodding off over my desk. I spent last evening with Kate who mixed us a huge G&T then opened wine to go with the roast chick. I haven't had an alcoholic drink since last Sunday and it hit me really hard. Memo to self - stay in training! The real killer was a coffee last thing. I was ricocheting around until beyond midnight reorganising the shelves in the shop. David-the-book-seller's visit left some of them floppy. Luckily I have back-ups.

Kate and I talked non-stop, I'm just not sure now what about. We did agree to work toward republishing a local book and I think I agreed to set up a space and time for some chap who has a wild-life centre further north to give a talk. Oh dear! I don't even remember what he is called now.

I feel a bit fragile and still have three hours to go before I can shut the shop.

Playing hookey.

It is always an extra treat to take time out on a work day. (There's something else I would miss if I closed the shop!)

My car gets used so little that I thought it was due a treat too, so it went through the car wash, an experience I hate. The big solid blower thing that looms up last, following the contours of the car (hopefully) up and over, scares me horribly. I always release the brake just in case the sensor has failed especially for me, and sit with my palms sweating. No exaggeration.

That over I drove gently through to Fochabers to pick up Donald who was still having his breakfast, so I joined him for the coffee and toast. He was wearing a Death Valley T shirt that his daughter brought him back years ago from her visit. More than just a visit; she and her boyfriend walked naked the length (or was it the breadth? never mind) of it. Good gracious! I would love to meet this young woman; she evidently has character. Whilst he got himself ready I browsed happily amongst his books, longing to kidnap all of them, especially the leather-bound beauties. He recently acquired 48 volumes of fairy tales in French. That's quite an awesome collection of tales. I have been trying to think of anything comparable that has ever been published in English and so far failed.

We drove to Portsoy and had a drink in the pub on the harbour. Four old chaps were leaning against the bar, a grumpy looking barmaid slouching the other side watching them. Two of them got into a slanging match. It seemed only to take a sentence or two to get there. Maybe it's an on-going argument that they continue each time they meet, beginning where they left off. Not satisfactory for incomers - we couldn't find out what it was about. Eventually silence fell. They supped with their shouders hunched against each other and finally three of them shuffled out. Donald whispered 'It's like something out of 'The Last of the Summer's Wine!"

No food available in that pub so we found a hotel and feasted gloriously on smoked haddock, mash, poached egg and cheese sauce. A sort of beefed up version of Oeuf Benedict.

Then to see Wilma at Bookends where she and I bemoaned the lack of trade. I was reasured to talk to another seller who has been through the 'I'm going to close' time often in the past. I found nothing much to buy but we had a great chat. Wilma (my age?) has just found herself a new man. I heard that another lady bookseller also managed to find herself a succession of men. Maybe I'm too picky. (There is one chap.... but it's no good; I just don't fancy him.) I wonder if the pentacle Wilma wears has got anything to do with her bewitching charms?

Donald has just rung up pretending to be an officer from the Banff Constabulary. Yesterday as we stood looking across the little harbour, to give Donald time for a smoke between the pub and our next stop, a young black labrador that seemed to be with a family, ran down the precipitous rocks to the shore and into the water where it stood looking hopefully up at the children who had been playing with it, now more than twenty feet above it. The family went back to their car but the dog remained standing, up to it's hocks in water, head cocked in anticipation. We watched for five minutes or more and still it stood like a statue. I was torn between laughter and anxiety for the poor silly creature. It did have a collar on but - well, if Donald hadn't dragged me away to find something to eat I might have brought it home with me. As we didn't see the going of it it may still be there....

After all this excitement in Portsoy we visited Tom at Abra Antiques. I'm afraid he would have been disapponted by our visit. I was not in buying mode and Donald isn't impressed by Tom - who is the F.A.R.T.S. sort of shop keeper (Follows Around Recommending The Stock) Anyway these days Tom doesn't have any books worth looking at. He is by trade an antiques dealer and has begun making jewelry from Victorian silver beads. I bought some ear-rings for my daughter-in-law and that's all I did buy. As we were about to leave Tom told us that he had a millionaire coming to look at a folder of Japanese prints, costumes and illustrations of life in Japan in the 19th century (I think... could be wrong there, but historically interesting anyway) Donald was intrigued by this and asked to be contacted if Tom didn't get a sale. So who knows what may come of our visit after all.

And here's another rather blue one.

I forgot to take my camera yesterday but here is one of Portsoy Harbour I made earlier - last year in fact.

Feeling better?

I think I must be better. Something has made me very very angry today. finally I have the energy to get mad!!

Healing.

Crawford came to do the not-hands-on healing. It was good to lie down for 30 minutes but even better to find that when I got up my eyes are focusing properly again. My breathing changed markedly at some point from really heavy to really quiet. I felt all tension leave my stomach area, my chest expanded, my lungs feel better. Fantastic! The most tangible effect is in the eyes.

He is very happy with it. Whatever 'it' is that this chap is spreading. Paradoxically the chap says there is no need to go to the workshops except to get some experience and to feel comfortable doing what they do. And what they do is NOT wear crystals, invoke angels, wash their hands, shake off bad energy into salt water, study for years, pay hugely for 'initiations' like the Reiki gig and so on. This all appeals muchly to Crawford who always was a good healer and is also a died-in-the -wool individualist who has never succumbed to the fear-driven tennets of the New Age. He's an interesting man and one I am very pleased to have included in my life. Born in the Gorbals with a very good brain but little education and no encouragement, he lgot an apprenticeship as an instrument maker which took him aboard ships and eventually, by devious paths, to South America where he became a millionaire doing the Fray Bentos thing, having a factory where as he puts it, they drove the cattle in one end and brought them out in a tin the other. He has ridden with the gauchos, speaks Spanish like a native, needed to carry a gun to deal with rustlers and internecine disputes between workers, had his back broken by a mule, (when he was told he would never walk again) and eventually given it all up to build his own log cabin in the woods. I've seen photos of it, it was really something. I also talked to his son Iain who told me lots of stories about his father's life. One in particular stuck in my mind because I can imagine it so well. They (the family I think, son, daughter, and wife) were sailing down the Amazon in a middling-sized yacht and Crawford toppled overboard. The current was strong and the river both very wide and very deep, the sides of the yacht slippery and sheer. Iain told me how they watched in horror as Crawford went down once then twice and fail to reappear. They were despairing when, like Triton, streaming water, he launched himself bellowing out of the river and leapt five feet into the air to catch the gunwhale. (I didn't ask where the lifebelt was - it would spoil the story!! ) I can imagine that he wasn't very easy to be married to. His Latvian wife made a visit back to Briton and moved all the money he had sent back into her own account, then sued for divorce. Crawford was returned to where he had started, with nothing but his wits. He came back to the UK and worked with big companies for a while, but his heart wasn't in it. He gave it up and opened a Complimentary Therapy clinic and never had any real money again! Larger than life and having a way with the ladies he hasn't been a saint, but he has never been a parasite either. (My mind turns to Mr Toad who is never anything but a parasite, depending on women to feed, shelter and bail him out at every turn in his path. They couldn't be more different.) At 76 Crawford finds it impossible to get regular work although he is very fit and still has more wits than most. He manages to earn a little here and there but it is a constant source of upset to him that his new wife, who is half his age, has now to be the main bread-winner whilst he can only teach Spanish and do odd jobs. They plan to move to Spain when they can accumulate enough money.

Chewing gum furniture

Today my blog is next door to an Italian one selling (I suppose) furniture that looks as if it is made out of Fimo or chewing gum. Or a taffy pull - that it! It looks like a taffy pull, and who can imagine curling up on THAT? There really is some excruciatingly uncomfortable furniture around. Always has been I remember the Art Deco house in Brussels (but not the artist who had lived there.. come on brain...) It had chairs that looked like a Charles Rennie Macintosh design. In fact now I come to think of it C R M did design chairs and extremely uncomfortable they looked too. What is the point? For me a chair has to be big enough to tuck up my legs or better still cross them. I hate sitting in the conventional way and am very uncomfortable doing so for any length of time.

I am very uncomfortable in this chair now because I can't get my legs under the table and have to sit at an angle to type. If I were working for someone else I would complain loudly. There just isn't anywhere else to put the desk wihtout losng so much shelf space.

The good news of the day is that I have managed to list some RAF books and one of them turned out to be rather desirable and therefore capable of netting a tasty price.

Oh dear.

Oh dear, I think I have made an enemy - an immigrant too. He wanted a Rumanian-English dictionary, or Spanish-English. I don't have either at the moment - Nepalese, Russian, Scandinavian... but not what he wanted. He spent a while looking and came to me with a multilingual dic. which gives words in 17 languages and which I have priced at £7.50 Not unreasonable IMO and it's on Amazon so I'd checked out prices when I listed it. He told me crossly that new it would be £5. I told him politely it wouldn't. Actually it's not for sale on it's own when new; it goes along with a language course and a CD rom which I haven't got sadly but hey! - it's still a useful dictionary. I refused his offer of £1.50 and he stood over me quite aggressively. I looked it up, couldn't find exactly the same one but found one like it for which some numpty is asking £58.00 (No CD either.) It was a battle of wills for a while but eventually he growled something and left.

Oh dear. Maybe I should watch my back for a while.

Apart from that it's been a nice morning. David from Findhorn called in to see me on his way back from the docs. He's a very sweet elderly gentleman who once took Costa and Ben, aged 13 years at the time, extra food when they were camping across the bay. He always asked after both of them and is delighted they both have careers in watersports. Last time he was in he told me his life story and very interesting it was too; many year living in Africa during quite dangerous times. His wife must have been brave - she always egged him on apparently. OK here's a resolution for the next lifetime - lots of travel and adventure. Less need for security. No asthma!

I also had a visit from a young couple who found out about the shop from the Book & Magazine Collector. Thy live in LOndon but visit relatives in Huntley and like to trawl the bookshops. Now I have had to rethink my decision to stop being a B&M stockist. Their purchases more than justified the small expense of carrying 10 copies each month. It seems to be a time of making and changing decisions. I feel very schizophrenic. Maybe the various subpersonalities should have a pow wow.

Yet another person selling books

Every phone call this morning has been someone trying to sell me their books. Except one who wanted to know if I'm open this afternoon. Does that mean serious potential buyer? I did check if he was wanting to sell me books, because if so....
It's a pity I don't have enough money to buy them all or enough space to put them in. Or is it?

I must be feeling better because I'm restless sitting here doing nothing. No books to list; no-one to talk to. Crawford is going to give me some healing tomorrow. Then I will really be back on form and perhaps able to make a decision.......

Split personality.

Well now, I have just been offered 3000 Scottish books at £1500 or so. Whilst I don't have that much available thanks to the tax man (or my own stupidity I supose) and last week I was definately going to close the shop.... I find that old reflexes take some quitting. There should be a patch.

Crawford was in and I was blethering away to him about my inability to make decisions, pay taxes etc. In return he told me about a mate of his who set up a chip oil cleaning plant locally for people who want to fuel their cars with something other than petrol, for environmental reasons amongst others. The oil he takes from the chippies around the area was once dumped to the detriment of the environment. He processes it and sells it to folk for £1 a litre. The British government don't like this. They tax him 52p per litre and charge him for a licence to transport fuel (the cleaned chip oil which was once being dumped etc. etc.) The licence costs £3000 a year. Bleugh!

Other countries do not tax chip oil cleaned and sold this way. It makes absolutely no sense to do so when the alternative is having to find a safe place for the restaurants to get rid of it.

Make your teeth grit hearing this sort of nonsense.

The other teeth-gritting thing I heard over the weekend (nothing to do with books but hey... who cares?) Nick has a small scaley patch on his leg which has been called by the doc 'Bowen's Disease' and which is a pre-cancerous condition. He was advised to get an appointment with the consultant dermatologist in Inverness. Waiting time: three months. To get an appoitment in the only private hospital hereabouts (in Aberdeen) was also nearly that long. He phoned St.Luc in Brussels and could get an appointment within 10 days. Not private treatment - he could have been anyone. They had already arranged a visit to Brussels in May so were able to make an appointment to fall during their trip. What IS it with this stupid country? .

Resolutions

Resolutions for the week: a) pick Donald up and take a trip out that includes lunch (preferably fish and chips) and looking at books. Ring a couple of the folk who are trying to sell me books and take a look at what they've got. c) drink wine with Sheila in the Ramnee one evening. d) have supper with Kate.

In short: Live. I'm fed up with feeling cr*ppy. Glen went to the Geilgud Theatre last week to see a play. How long is it since I did somethng like that - and how long is it since I did ANYTHING!!

Harnessing Peacocks.

Lunch with N & D. Chloe's birthday lunch so I made a coffee and pecan nut cake as my contribution. There's always good wine at Auchindathin. After lunch Chloe, Nick and I watched 'Harnessing Peacocks' by Mary Wesley, which must have been dramatised for BBC TV some years ago. It is one of my favourite books and now also one of Chloe's. Potentially a sad story about a young woman who gets pregnant by a total stranger during an Italian carnival in the seventies. She has been slipped a drug by another stranger so can't remember anything about the man except an associated smell of coffe and disconnected and nightmarish flashbacks of masked figures. Her upper class English family are outraged but snap into action and organise an abortion with no care for her feelings. She runs away before it can take place and the story flips twelve years into the future when she appears as a confident and happy young woman with a son at public school. It soon becomes apparent that the way she pays for the school is by cooking for rich elderly ladies and tarting. She has formed a 'syndicate' of men who she tries out first to see if they suit her. 'I'll see if I'm happy with you. Don't worry, you will be happy with me.' The outcome of the story is that she finds the father of her child and gives it all up, but the appeal of the story for me - and I believe for Chloe too - is the freedom which this young woman feels within this arangement. Of course it wouldn't work so smoothly or happily in real life, but the idea of being so self-reliant, unattached, guilt free and carefree about relationships, whilst still being able to be warm and affectionate, is wonderful. A dream few of us attain.

Green man.

The green man who disappointingly refuses to go green. True Thomas is much more obliging. I feel this green man is rather malevolent. Well, maybe that's too strong; he's just an awkward old devil.

Work space.

Cramped work space. Just about viable. There's a door to the outside behind the desk so it's a bit drafty sometimes.

True Thomas

True Thomas standing guard over his puddle of water. When I'm not taking photos the birds like to drink and bathe here. TT is a very benign gargoyle copied from one on York Minster in York sandstone. I have told the family he is to be my headstone - ashes underneath and TT atop. If they move they can just take TT wih them. it made me feel very cheerful to have decided this for some odd reason.

The sunroom

The sunroom this morning, with sun. Unusual enough to rouse me to take photos. it's a lovely place to drink coffee in. During the week it doubles as a waiting room for Chloe's osteopathy practice.

These violets have chosen to grow in the chippings - I planted the parent family in a shady nook near a nice damp log pile, but no, they prefer chippings in full sunshine. hardly the shrinking sort it seems.

Profit margins.

Two people have asked me in as many days if this place makes a profit. Both had an 'Of course I know it can't really and you only do it as a hobby' tone in their voices. If they only knew! I finally got around to doing my tax return (late, I've really been under the weather for a while now and what with one thing and another..) for 2006-7 and find I have a hefty bill to pay. In the complete privacy of this space (!?) I can safely divulge that the shop made £17,000 profit that year. Which really startled me because I hadn't been adding it up and it didn't feel much when I was living on it monthly. Well, it isn't much, but it's adequate.

When I finished the adding up there was a moment of quiet triumph and a moment of 'Oh shit!!' because I hadn't thought to put any aside as I went along. The payment problem has been dealt with, but I shall have to be better organised in future. The triumph comes from making this amount from a very small stock, which proves it's really not size that counts, it's all about choosing the right books.

The profit margin would be knocked seriously if I had to pay a High Street rent, but then I wouldn't do it anyway.

Maybe I should just pat myself on the back and celebrate instead of feeling so useless.

Highs and lows

My personal internal weather affects the shop. The shop affects my personal internal weather. This week I am feeling chilly and grey, (possibly as a result of all the antibiotics.) The takings, though not terrible, haven't been great, which in turn makes me feel greyer. Yesterday was an oasis of fun as it was my eldest daughter's birthday and a celebration is always good. An excuse to cook a steamed chocolate pud!

On the other hand today started in a difficult way with an elderly friend appearing in the shop to ask me to order difficult-to-find books. I don't know how she does it, but my heart drops when I see her come in because I KNOW she will have found a title that she wants very badly but that is going to take me 20 minutes to a) track down and b) buy, from some obscure web site. Once uopn a time I would have felt a sense of satisfaction at finding the book but (is this a sign I have been doing it too long?) that doesn't seem to happen these days.

I have been thinking a lot about the possibility of closing the shop and selling only on the internet. I would have so much more freedom for walks on the beach, café-sitting, charity shop trawling and so on. Then I think about the dangers of putting all my eggs into one basket - the internet is becoming difficult. So many people are either listing at 1p or underpricing each other down to 1p. That still works for those who have contracts with Royal Mail but in order to make a contract viable it is necessary to be posting a very high number per month. So, like most things, there is a level one has to reach before it pays off. The thought of reaching the necessary number of listings and then packing that many books does not fill me with excitement. Let's face it, I am not as young as Tony R who decided to make book selling his career and who has a wife, child, mortgage etc. to support. At that point it HAS to work big time.

The internet underpricing systems have driven prices into a downward spiral that is seriously devaluing my stock and I suppose everyone elses. I'm not sure it is working in the customer's favour either, with so many less-than-professional sellers who don't describe their books properly, shovel them into paper bags and throwing them in the post. It isn't going to stop now though.

Maybe I am just in a low energy patch and when the weather improves my outlook will improve. I can't help thinking about the bookselling lady in Fochabers who died the year before last. I bought the best of her stock which had a very run-down feel to it. Do I want the shop to go slowly down hill as I loose energy, or should I quit whilst it's still OK? The newly restricted space is certainly less attractive but on the other hand real browsers are finding what they want. It's a quandary.

The need to behave in a reasonably cheery way for the benefit of the customers can change my own mood. It only takes one really nice person through the door to brighten the day. Which means I often benefit from the shop in more ways than simply financial. Then again there are the difficult ones, the grumpy ones, the supercillious ones and the smelly ones.....

As so many times in my life when I've been facing a decision I find I cannot make two columns, one for the positive and one for the negative effects of taking a particular route. Some results carry more weight than others. I give them stars.... but in the end tossing a coin works too. Making a decision to NOT make a decision is probably the best way to go. I used to have something on the wall to the effect that 'There is no problem that cannot be solved by indecision.'

That pretty much sums it up.

A dealer from Aberdeen is coming at the end of next week. Fingers crossed that should help the score. Then buying some more books will renew my interest and freshen up the shelves.

I'm interested to learn that the remainder company 'Sandpiper' is refusing to sell to folk who might then list their books on the net so undercutting Sandpiper themselves. As I have never seen the point of remaindered books (they are usually remainderd for a reason) it doesn't affect me but seems to be rattling a few cages.

Smelly customers

There is a chap who comes in from time to time who used to look reasonably kempt but now downright smells. It's sad - and objectionable. In the early days of the shop he talked and talked about the grand jobs he'd had before he'd retired when he worked for international companies. He began his ramble by telling me (every time) how much he loved books and bookshops - so much so that I'd never get him out of the shop, he'd be staying to tea and dinner, and that he had hundreds of his own, a library in fact, he just needed someone to catalogue it for him... with a maningful look at me. In your dreams mate. He never ever bought a book - well, he was on a pension and had to watch the pennies... I think he bought a couple of plates from Dickens once; illustrations by 'Kyd' just to kid me along no doubt. I didn't see him for a long time and now he is back in thre High Street, unshaven, and unwashed and still talking round the same spiral. I have become less and less responsive; yesterday I vowed that if he comes back I shall ask him to leave. He is an educated bloke and obviously has had money so this going to seed is not something that had to happen.

Thre is a little old lady who smells too, of urine and rubber welliboots, but I like her and she buys a surprising number of books, spending £20 or more a time. She also is well spoken and educated. This whole thing about body odour in the old is very unnerving. Ihave all my clothes that aren't in the wash airing by an open window because who knows perhaps I smell too and just don't notice it!! People who live in caravans (and there are quite a few round here) smell musty, as do the ones who live in small cramped damp housing. Years ago I noticed one family of children who played with my three smelled very sour and decided it was the peat fire. Wood smoke is lovely but peat is not.

Maybe I'm hypersensitive to smells. I hate going to the Universal Hall (at the Findhorn Foundation) to a performance because the Foundation people so often don't use deodorant, especially the men who seem to regard a nice strong male odour as necessary to their self expression, like untrammelled farting. Of course the veggie food with lots of beans increases the risk of that. I don't think they cook the beans properly. Soya needs long soaking and after that the first two boil-ups of water thrown away. Dangerous not to really because soya beans are poisonous. If the people living there work in the communal kitchen they reek of the food they have been cooking and that's never pleasant. The intimate smell of another person is only tolerable if you love that person.

This obsession means I get through a lot of incense in the shop. Aftre the disgusting old man left I opened the window (it was a VERY cold day) and stuck a strong smelling incense stick into a notch in the wood of one of the bookcases. The next customer didn't see it and knocked against it knocking it flying and marking her coat! In my wn defence I thought that trade was over for the day because it was 5pm and no-one had been near the place since the DOM for at least an hour.

Sunshine - a little

The rain seems to be letting up a bit amd I see sunshine on the grass in front of the church. Trade is slow but not terrible and I have more antibiotics to assist my body in recovering from that very insidious bug so - not too bad on the whole. The most exciting moment today was when I succesfully downloaded Firefox and found I could get a pic onto the 'about me' bit of this blog, something Safari just wasn't managing. Don't know why when it managed to get pics onto the post pages but - there we are. It's all a myster to me. Firefox also enabled me to find the Google map of Amazombies one clever chap initiated and even to add a bit about the shop. Brilliant. Now all I need to do is find out how to change fonts and colours like other folk... I'm always a bit behind the technogeeks.

Gotta go make coffee for Chloe.....

Polar blast

Poor weather, good trade. The shop has been quite busy this morning, with paying customers not just those seeking shelter from the cold. I've been sitting here for half and hour with my hat on ready to go out but people keep coming in... not that I'm complaining... The nice young chap who works at the quarry came in on his anniversary hunt for books and I heard some more about my one of ex-husband Nick's pet causes. N & D live near the quarry and are troubled by blasts. Well D is mainly. Also noise from the plant lifting and moving rocks, and from lorries barrelling past their house on a single track road. Nick has taken up the gauntlet, formed a local Committee from the affected residents, who have made him chairman. He is well experienced in negotiating and is proving a cool-headed, dispassionate but committed watchdog who makes it his business to keep the quarry owners within agreed legal bounds. The young man thoroughly approves of Nicholas and of his endeavours; he tells me that Nick's liaison in the firm is also an academic who enjoys a challenge, so the two of them are evidently evenly matched and probably enjoying themselves pitting wits. The Quarry Committee meets from time to time over a comfortable glass of wine and it has bonded people living in that area into a pleasant group out of which other social opportunities have arisen like quiz nights at Gordonstoun. It has brought some custom and some book-buying opportunites to me too, for which I am grateful. Not a bad outcome.

I feel sorry for Danielle though. They looked hard for a house that fitted all their disparate requirements. Enough metres above sea level (and far enough back from the coastal plane.) Away from electricity pylons. Not surrounded by agricultural land that could be turned to uses they would rue (pig farming for instance.) It isn't easy round here. It looks as if there is plenty of countryside but much of it is owned by the Estates, or farmers. They found the almost perfect place - except for the quarry. Ironically the very peacefulness of their situation makes that presence so much worse. Living on the High Street as I do I would hardly notice the odd rumble. Intruding on the silence of a summers day five miles up the hill it is so much more disturbing.

I'm finding it very tiring being back in this seat. The virus still isn't totally out of my system and it's hard listening to people chatter on about their pet interests. Ordinarily I would find it entertaining. I do pick up a lot. By the end of the day my brain feels like an imaginary butterfly which has alighted on many different species of plant in a short space of time and taken in too much pollen. Sated. Saturday a chap told me lots of stuff about the Royal family I didn't know (not that they are reptile aliens as Davd Icke would have us believe.) I'm not in the least bit interested in the RF but he made it amusing. Whilst he was talking I remembered the fellow who has 'proof positive' that Victoria had a son by John Brown. Wonder how he is getting on.

Alan just brought me in two more raillway books he doesn't want and we had a conversation about books we are reading at present which led, somehow, to Heimat. He's the only person I have met apart from Nick who has seen all three. It's nice to share an enthusiasm.

Heimat

I have just finished watching Heimat 3. Edgar Reitz, the director, sees himself as a storyteller. I wonder if storytelling can fill the place of religion. For me it can and does. I don't need meaning any more but I like to see a story unfold and if I am surprised at some of its twists, well so much the better. The steady evolution of new situations pulls one on into the future.

The three Heimat films (the series title was apparently an ironic reference to the heimatfilm genre of the 1950's with their rural settings, sentimentality and simplistic morality) make a story that has nothing to do with religion, politics, art, culture, nature, the cosmos, or any other grand human theme. It is purely a story. Tragedies occur and are given their moment but the moment passes and another moment arrives which has little or nothing to do with what has gone before. That is important to me. There are no universal truths drawn out of events. They happen. They pass. Some have consequences; Many have no consequences. Sometimes the characters find meaning and truths along the way, like Hermann who says: 'In the end it is family that is the strongest.' But the observer is left understanding that this is only Herman's truth and that they have to find their own.

The grand themes fires our lives; sometimes we choose to ride one, to make it the steed which takes us through our life; art maybe, or politics, ecology, conservation, fighting poverty. Some of us choose a less noble mount like running a bookshop. The animal has energy of its own and carries us when we flag. Occasionally we are in control. More often not at all.

The span of time covered between 1918 - 2000 saw some terrible events in the world and a few wonderful ones. Not everyone's lives where directly touched by these events. Occasionally during the first Heimat there is a glimpse of the horrors but they affect almost none of the characters on a personal day-to-day level. That is the truth. For the majority of human beings big things happen to others and are suffered vicariously. When they happen to us they are less big because they become the same size as ourselves.

Or because we are only one small part of what is happening.

April

Pink blossom slabbed on slate sky tumbled by white snowflakes.

Smudged green church sitting on slick grass moated by liquorice pavements.

Community

I was introduced to the poet by a contributor to the Amazon sellers' board. Which can now be my justification for trawling it several times a day.

Whilst I was ill I had another sad but enriching experience of this strange etheric brotherhood of booksellers. A lady called Dorothy Millns died. Her son posted the news very early one morning, just a few hours after she had passed; by mid morning the responses were flooding in from folk who, like me, had learned to love Dorothy. I had come to 'know' her through her posts over the years as a warm, witty and wise woman, who would go the extra mile to help a newbie. I wept. And others wept. And several wondered at the strangeness of this world where we now weep tears of loss at the death of a stranger who has become a dear personal friend to a community of people without there ever being any physical meetings. Her posts often ended with words like: 'Now I'm going to take my oxygen bottle to bed.' I was never sure if she was joking because there was so little self-pity in her comments. When I realised she suffered from emphysemia the compassion and understanding that she showed toward the motley rout who come and go on the boards, often not in the best of moods often behaving like fractious children, sometimes not the most rational or nicest of folk, was all the more impressive. It's quite hard to keep a sense of perspective when lacking oxygen in my experience.

There'll probably be another word- fight brewing on the boards in a short time, over religion, or alternative medicine or politics or - the inability of some folk to use proper punctuation. Names will be called, harsh words spoken, slurs and slights thrown, but through it all I shall see Dorothy grinning at us amongst the webs of waves and particles that connect us.

Orhan Veli Kanik

I've just been introduced to a Turkish poet: Orhan Veli Kanik. I'm not sure if these are from the same poem - must be really - but I came across them in different places.
------------------

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed

First a breeze is blowing

And leaves swaying

Slowly on the trees;

Far, far away the bells of the

Water carriers ringing,

I am listening to Istanbul with my eyes closed.

------------------------------------------------
I am listening to Istanbul, with my eyes closed.
The drunkeness of ancient feastings in my head.
A seashore villa with dim -lit boathouse
With howling of the dying west wind
I am listening to Istanbul, with my eyes closed.

One week later.

Well, that felt like a Lost Week. The band across my chest snapped during the night and I can breathe again without taking a mouthful of cortico-steroids. Now I just feel full of drugs, light headed and exhausted. Anyway it's progress.

The shop has been shut since the weekend; reopened this morning and I have had a touching welcome back from several people - even a card!! Better still, there has been some trade.