The novelty of having this stuff around is wearing very thin. Christmas day Chloë had to ferry grandparents up and down in a landrover and she's been driving it ever since because it's the only means of transport guaranteed to cope with conditions. Boxing day I managed to lug the turkey, bread sauce, veggie stuffing and gravy up to g'dad's (he and his wife baulk at sheep-station cookery so it always seems to fall to me but I'm thinking of rebelling next year.)

Today the books are being moved into the garage by a chain gang of lads otherwise employed as foresters so - heaven help the finer vols. My back and asthma have been playing up something chronic, probably at the thought of shifting 5730 of the remaining stock... urgh.

This was our view on Christmas day from Iain's house. It looks across the Moray Firth to the hills of the Black Isle beyond.

We had a warm and wonderful time over two days and are all much stouter than before.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Spiffingly good last day for the bookshop. Someone even bought the complete works of H. G. Wells with out frst asking me why 'The War of the Worlds' and 'The Time machine' aren't amongst the titles.

It really must be the last day because I felt sad sharing a warming glass of port with Tom mid-morning for the last time, and positively emotional when I closed the door after the last customer, a very nice young man who has been a steady browser-buyer. He took a large bag-full with him including three nicely bound small volumes containing the complete works of Shakespeare.

Charity begins...

.... at Christmas? I usually give all my small change to the Red Cross and there's quite a lot of it because I can't add up or take away fluently whilst holding a conversation so all prices in the shop are whole or half pounds and anything copper coloured goes in the interestingly shaped Red Cross box which empties out at around £20+ every month or so. I like the Red Cross because they offer help in disaster zones regardless of race, colour or creed and won't wittingly place any religious books on their shelves to avoid giving offence. This time of year, with so many Charities rattling boxes or dropping in to catch me sitting at my desk I usually send them on their way with those thoughts because the cash tin isn't THAT bottomless even this blessed week. However I do get caught by my own sentimental nostalgia and the rattle of tambourines outside Tesco had me slipping a tenner to the Sally Army (the Salvo to our antipodean mates) for my dad, and another into the Dr. Barnardo's box for taking in my half-brother whose latest letter about what it meant to him to find me and therebye get to know about our dad, had me in tears this morning.

Fun and games with BT yesterday. I wanted to close my business line and Chloe wanted to take it over, using her number which is at the moment residential and carrying her Broadband. Three phone calls by both of us resulted in the closing of the line (so any friends who ring me on 676576 - it's the other one now!) but when Chloe rang to try her luck at picking it up where it left off there was an office party in full swing in the BT Business line call centre and operator-guy burst out 'Oh this is going to be a NIGHTMARE!! It'll take WEEKS!!" So she decided to keep her number residential for the time being.

I have my fingers crossed she doesn't lose this line completely - like a piece of knicker elastic it might slip down the track and never be seen again.

Once or twice a year I remember why penguins walk in that amusing way.

The condition of the High Street pavements, covered with frozen and/or slushy stuff, should ensure a steady supply of broken legs and arms for the NHS plasterers to practice on and there were plenty of hardy or foolhardy folk out waddling along on them, which was good for me because my doorbell kept ringing as they slid through into the cosy warmth of this little bookshop and its last ever week got off to a really good start.

...and yet more on Mr T ...

An interesting additional tale of the onward march of Toad has surfaced in my pond this morning. During the summer a woman went to the Other Bookshop to say she had books to sell. Ms T went to see them, dragged out some piles and said she couldn’t buy them on the spot but would like them at a later date. The woman wasn’t best pleased to have had the books taken off the shelves and left in piles on the floor so when ‘the man’ phoned to say that he thought ‘they could do something about her books now’ she was already dubious. He turned up in a beaten-up car full of black plastic bags and looking - creepy was the word she used. The creepiness continued as he hung around and hung around telling her stories of his life she han’t asked to hear, for instance that he went into a seminary at an early age. This tidbit always comes up for the ladies; I suppose us romantics like such a show of spirituality, but I fear it may be wearing thin. On this occasion he laced the tale with remarks about giving himself friction burns whilst he was there. Ho! Ho! So perturbed was she that she rang a friend and asked the friend to come round or agree to meet her for a drink so she could get rid of him, which she finally did.

Sounds to me as if the Toad is losing his pulling power. That’s two women who’ve told me his advances only turned them off. The other one blushed heavily as she admitted he’d asked her for a coffee then complimented her bottom. She found him sleazy.

He wasn’t always so unhealthily vulgar and louche. Well, he was vulgar but seemed more rugby player masculine rather than what he has become, shabby, cheap and disreputable. A skin-crawler.

Sad really.