Running is the new walking.
Paid in origami pigs.

Almost legendary bookseller voodoo shit. Almost.

This morning I was idly thinking, we haven't sold much Didion recently.

Which surprised me. (The lack of sales, not the thinking.)

And then the first man through the door went straight to the back of the shop and picked up The White Album.

Yes! I thought, my uncanny subliminal bookselling powers have worked again.

This often happens. Wandering the shop my eyes will alight on a book and I will think, hmm, that's not selling anymore, and then an hour later I will have sold it.

It's a special form of alchemy and I'm very modest about it.

Anyway, our man walked the shelves for a good fifteen minutes all the while clutching Joanie to his chest. He shuffled infront of new titles and then came up to the counter.

He came up to the counter with a different book.

No, I wanted to say, you've got it wrong. Play the game old chum.

Instead I'm going to write a sign that reads, of one thing I am certain, Jake Arnott is not Joan Didion.





I'm going to hold a crucifix out in front of me next time I come in. Now I know why I end up buying books that I didn't even think of let alone even knew existed.

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