The Lifeline Bookfest (an insanely massive secondhand book sale) starts tomorrow, and I will be impatiently hovering outside the doors right before 9am, waiting to plunge at the table of science fiction (then literature, the kids books, and the cooking and craft sections, and then absolutely everything else) to fight off all the other crazy book obsessives. Actually, I’m very restrained compared with other people. Two women hovering near me at the last Bookfest had an enormous argument about the speed at which one of them was moving around the tables. I’m not quite that intense about it. (But it does irritate me a teensy bit when people pause in front of me to have a lengthy debate about whether they own this particular Asimov? Do they? Do you think so? Maybe? Should they just get it anyway? At that stage I tend to glare a little, and perhaps roll my eyes. Just a little.)
I’ve been making a list of books I want to read in the next month. I’ve had quite a good run of books recently - I’ve been reading a lot of blogs by writers, and they always seem to have interesting recommendations which are often new to me. I have plenty of different authors to keep any eye out for tomorrow, which is always a very thrilling prospect. Um. For me, anyway.
I overheard a girl having the following intense exchange on her mobile phone the other day:-
“I just need to get my life back on track, you know? I feel like shit. All I’ve been eating is porridge.” Which was kind of disappointing, because after her declaration of getting her life back on track, I expected a more dramatic conclusion than excessive porridge eating.
I found a pair of long gray woolen gloves today that came almost up to my elbow, and had buttons up the sleeve. Buttons! I was instantly transported to Victorian era England. I put them back (and returned to the modern world) because I decided I didn’t really need gloves with buttons, living in a fairly tropical climate as I do. But goddamnit, I think I’ve reconsidered. I’m getting a payrise in a week’s time, my hands get really cold in winter, and sometimes there are occasions when a girl needs to feel like she’s stepped out of a Victorian novel. There really are.
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