Booked out

This morning, as the rain teamed down and the girls were off at playgroup with their Grandma, I was on a mission. Being December 1, I wanted to get the girls an advent calendar – one that didn't have chocolate in it or was covered in Disney Princesses or My Little Ponies, as nice as they are (and if you're my daughters you think they're pretty bloody great) I don't recall Cinderella having that much to do with Christmas. I was hoping to find one of those daggy cardboard ones that you open up and there's a picture of some bells or holly, like I used to have when I was a kid. I didn't want to spend a fortune and buy one that was handcrafted and I don't want to handcraft one myself,  as me and craft just don't get along.

Soaked from carrying kids in and out the car on the drop-off, my hair dripping and feeling despondent as I'd failed to turn up anything slightly resembling what I wanted at a couple of shops, I stepped into a bookshop. Almost instantly, I was awash with the smell of new books, the peace and quiet and that indescribable feel a bookshop has. I was instantly intoxicated by it all. Floating a couple of inches off the ground, I flicked through all the new releases out in time for Christmas, I compiled a list of summer reading and I completely lost myself. Advent calendar? What advent calendar?

I adore bookshops. When I grow up I want to own one. I want to sit behind the counter, drinking cups of tea, dishing out advice on the latest best sellers. I want to stack the shelves and feel the shiny covers and the weight of the books as I slide them into their right place. I want to arrange book marks and knick-knacks on the counter. I want to inhale the smell of brand-new books all day long.

When I stepped out the shop about 45 minutes later, empty-handed, I felt calm, serene and fulfilled. Who needs valium?

Image by Johanna Ljungblom