The Bedside Crow

To be sung in the manner of Morrissey.

There is a posh boy standing at the counter.

There is a posh boy standing at the counter.

Looking at the cookbook by Rachel Khoo.

Have you seen her...he asks.

Have you seen her.

She's so lovely...

Rachel Khooooooo...

Little Paris Kitchen.

Little Paris Kitchen......Khooooo...

He is drooling.

He is drooling and it isn't at the food.

There is a posh boy standing at he counter...

He has a sweat on, he is panting, he is licking his fingers. He is a banker.

Little French Khoooooo...

I like your dumplings...

 

 

A man approaches the counter.

Hello mate, you still here? he says.

I laugh in a hollow fashion.

Not, he says, that I wish you anywhere underground.

I decide that this is his 'manner' and decline to take it personally.

Another man, wearing his hat backwards, approaches the counter. He pulls a blue box from a Sainsbury's carrier bag. Would you like, he asks, to buy some Swarovski diamonds?

No, I say, I'm sorry, but no, I wouldn't.

No? he says, are you sure?

I am, I say.

Really? he says.

Really, I say.

Honestly? he says.

Honestly, I say.

Why don't you, he says, at least have a look at them.

The telephone rings.

Go ahead, the man with the diamonds says, answer the phone.

I answer the phone.

Is that Books Etc? a voice asks.

No I say, no it's not. I laugh.

Why are you laughing? the voice asks.

Because Books Etc went bust a while back. I say.

They did? he says. So you don't trade as Books Etc any more?

We have never been Books Etc, I tell him.

But Yellow Pages says you are.

Well we're not, I say. I start to weep.

The man with the diamonds rattles his box.

Bookselling; it's a rare science, my friends. A rare science.

That book that you recommended to me, a lady says, I really liked it.

The Sea on Fire, I say. (See just over there on the left).

Yes, she says, it's really good, you can tell he really knows his diving. I'm going to buy a copy for a friend.

That's great, I say, I'm glad you like it.

She leaves with her book.

A man enters the shop.

I'm really struggling with that book about diving, he says. (See over there on the left).

You are, I say.

Yeah, he says, I'm not warming to it at all.

A man stands before me at the counter holding a manuscript in an envelope in his hand.

He begins his speech and then pauses.

I know you, he says. Did you ever work at Waterstone's in Greenwich?

Never did, I say. Never been in the employ of Waterstone's.

He narrows his eyes.

I did run a bookshop in Clapham, though, I say.

That's it, he says. That's where I know you from.

I nod.

I used to be a regular customer, he says.

I know, I say.

I remember, he says, I was in the shop one day and it was empty except for a little girl who was talking to you. She was playing with one of those cut out dolls and nattering away to you. And I just listened to the conversation. It was magical. Later of course I used the scene in a film script. The film script never got made but it did get me an agent.

Did you, I say.

It turned out that the agent was useless and I spent the best part of two years on the dole.

You did? I say.

But then, he says, I got another agent who was brilliant. That was fifteen years ago and I made so much money writing screenplays that I've now retired. I bought my house for cash, I've got some invetsments and I never need to work again.

Really, I say. Congratulations.

I'm rich, he says.

That's great, I say.

And you, he says, I see you're still selling books. Well done. It must be hard.

I look up to the ceiling and consider using my hidden net; the one that will fall from above to capture him and hoist him away.

I see you're still wearing lifts in your shoes, I say.

Outside the weekly ambulance pulls up outside the pub.

Anyway, he says, I've written this children's book.

The man at the library wrote this down for me.

A lady hands me a piece of paper.

On it the title of a book.

And, in big letters, the word AMAZ*N.

Thanks man at the library.

The telephone rings.

I answer it.

A man asks excitedly, When I was in your shop, not last week, but the week before, you were playing some very nice music, what was it?

Two weeks ago, you say?

Yes, it was a Wednesday, he tells me.

I'm sorry, I say.

But, he says, you are such a polymath!

He puts the phone down.

I put the phone down.

It rings again.

It is Jim who plays the jazz guitar. The name of the book, he says, It came to me in the bath.

We go on like this for some time.

In other news, it is not yet ten-thirty and somebody has already asked God to bless me.

Sorry mate, can you speak up please? No, sorry, I'm still not getting it.

Hang on, that's not the twat who is the hideous media whore, is it?

I am looking up an author for a customer.

No, not this one. I think you're safe, I say.

Thank God, she says.

She is one of my favourite customers.

The telephone rings.

I answer it.

A woman says, You very kindly ordered The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur for me and left a message to say that it has arrived.

Yes,I say, We did.

I'm afraid I bought it in India, she says.

You did? I say.

And so I will no longer be needing the copy you specially ordered for me at great expense. 

I see, I say. Possibly not using those particular words.

I wouldn't worry though, she says, It's a very popular book, and you won't have any problem selling it to someone else.

I see, say. Again, not possibly using those exact words.

No problem at all, she says.

I put the phone down.

She is not my favourite customer.

.

Could you write down the title for me please?

Of course, I say.

Because, my customer says, I don't always order books straight away. In fact one time I think it was about five years before I actually ordered the book. He laughs.

Really, I say.

In fact the more I think about it, one time it was probably seven years, or even eight, before I ordered anything.

I hand him the piece of paper with 23 Things You Didn't Know About Capitalism written on it.

Thanks, he says, I just thought it looked slightly interesting.

 

A man comes in to collect a book.

Steve.

I look up.

That's your name isn't it?

It's Jon actually, I say.

I'm sure she told me it was Steve, the lady who was here.

Well, sorry, but it's Jon, I say again.

I hand him his book.

It doesn't look as big as I remember it, he says. I remember a bigger book.

He holds the book up to the light, weighs it in his hand.

Or perhaps, he says, it was me that was smaller back then.

 

A customer asks me.

If a person has hurt their foot and is tired of walking what would be the best way for them to get home, would you say?

It depends, I say. Where are you going?

I'm sorry, they say, but I'm not prepared to tell you that.

Days pass. It gets colder.

Another customer asks. Did you ever find out who bought that copy of my dad's book?

Um, no I didn't, I say, thinking briefly that perhaps we should take the names and addresses and telephone numbers associated with every purchase. Just in case we are ever asked this question again.

Well, that's a mystery then isn't it? he says.

Yes, it is, I say.

A lady approaches, What can you recommend for me, she asks, for someone who likes fishing and red Indians and is in AA?