The Bedside Crow

We completed on the sale of our house yesterday morning.

As a consequence a lot of money went into our bank account (don't worry, most of it will shortly go out of it again).

A quarter of an hour later I went to the bank to pay in Monday's takings.

Mr Main, have you considered an ISA? I was asked, the minute the banking was completed, by the smiling cashier.

I hesitated to answer, reflecting that it was the first time in thirteen years that I had been asked this question, and then out of sympathy with the woman who had been handed the bum task of asking it, and even though I had every good reason too, I resisted the temptation to tell Lloyds Tsb to go fuck itself.

[A customer emailed me yesterday to ask if this was a genuine offer. It is, and there will be more.]

and on the beach we found a shell.

Yesterday it rained.

Untitled from Jonathan Main on Vimeo.

Luckily it was the busiest day I've ever had in terms of email and internet sales, including three from Twitter.

And the bread, it has to be said, was delicious.

Yesterday I went for a swim and then did one of the things that I most dislike other people doing to me. I went for a saunter down Lordship Lane in East Dulwich, which even though I live nearby, and have for over 20 years, I hadn't explored for some time. Man, I said to myself, I remember when all of this was desert as I wandered in and out of the many and various new shops and posh delis - all the while talking on my mobile phone. Yet I needn't have worried about the phone thing as, around these parts, it now appears to be standard behavior. Obligatory even. And mayonnaise. If you ever need mayonnaise, then this is the place to be. There must be more mayonnaise and sourdough bread outlets in this half mile of road than anywhere else in the world. Tsk, in my day a 3 day old white sliced and a jar of Co-Op own brand salad cream was just about the best you could hope for.

I paused at a new (to me) German bakery and took my place at the back of the beautiful people queue. Eventually, when, having first been ignored, it was my turn, I pointed at a loaf and asked what it was - as in, what flour was it made from? To which the answer was, part wholemeal, part rye sourdough, or something, but, and here's the thing, the woman serving me looked me up and down and said, BUT IT IS THREE POUNDS A LOAF.

So there you go. I clearly have the look about me of a man who can't afford to pay £3.00 for a loaf of bread.

Later, I was back at the shop when one of my favourite customers came in and spent £47.60. If you saw her - scruffy, long straggly grey hair, beaten up shopping trolley, swears at the other customers if they get in her way - you would definitely think her only purpose in visiting us (as I once did) would be to shoplift the Martina Cole's (if we stocked them). Not a bit of it. Yesterday she bought a book on herbs, a book on magic and an £18.00 hardback book on baseball. Another time, my friend Geoff who deals in comics looked on in astonishment as she came up to the counter with a hardback copy of The Ten Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How it Changed America by David Hajdu.

You don't get too many books on baseball in this country, do you, she said to me as she handed me her cash.

No, you don't, I said.

You could do with some more books on the occult, she said.

I could, I said, I'll get some in.

She put the books in her trolley and left quickly dragging it behind her, almost knee-capping a gent browsing the greetings cards.

Memo to self: Watch this one again in November

Am I having some chicken? from Jonathan Main on Vimeo.

South East London Sunday Morning: A Documentary

I have a good fast bike with thin tyres and I cycle at a decent speed around Gipsy Hill roundabout. A silver Golf gives way to me. Behind it a larger modern Volkswagen camper van doesn't. It comes up on my inside as I'm signalling to turn left. I swear at it and it eventually slows enough for me to turn up Gipsy Hill. It follows me and a big bottle blond woman in her 40s leans out the side.

It's your fault for cycling in the middle of the fucking road and holding everybody up fat boy. You're fucking lucky we didn't just plow you down ain'tcha. Ain'tcha?

I swear again.

Who you calling wankers fatboy?

You, I say. Don't you know about giving way?

The bloke who is doing the actual driving beside her, says nothing.

Look at you in your tights, you fucking gayboy, the woman says. Gayboy! bend over!

I start cycling again.

They pass me and the woman leans out of her window. Next time we'll fucking run you down! Bend over gayboy! Bend over! Bend over! she continues to shout as they travel past me up the hill.

On my old slow bike with fat tyres I used to, at the more dangerous stages of my journey to work, cycle on the  pavement a bit. But people don't like that at all. Indeed, once a middle class newspaper columnist and apparent *social commentator* popped along here specifically to call me an arse for it. Which was nice of her.

A dad, two kids and a hat.

I hate going to Bromley, although the Bike shop is great. But I love these guys. Sorry about the quality of from my Blackberry. I am going to try and get them outside our shop some time soon.

How great would they be at your wedding. Pretty great I should think. And the dad plays that sax too.

It's a bloody great life if you don't, etc, etc

So, eldest was last seen disappearing into the far distance bent double with the size of her rucksack full of nail varnish, hair-dryer and high-heeled flip-flops for a weekend of camping with The Duke of Edinburgh. Middle child is spending the day filming an 'educational video' and has been pacing the kitchen with a haughtiness normally associated with Julia Roberts. Meanwhile Fred has raised himself from his sickbed for a football match and if he can't 'skill-up' the opposition he might just throw up on them instead. Let's hope it doesn't go to extra time. Justine is teaching swimming before magically becoming Mrs Crow at the Market, and me, I can hear the call of 17 boxes of unpacked books.

Laters.

I swear

one of these days I'm going to carry on cycling right past the door and out into the hills of Kent.

Especially on a day like today when my first task of the morning is to scrape the dog shit from the pavement outside the shop. I'm betting smiley Jeff never starts his day like this.

I know, moaning again. Sorry. I promise, if I get a chance later, after I have written about The Crystal Palace Children's Book Festival for the new issue of The Transmitter magazine, (you can, should you so wish, read the whole blinking thing on-line) added up the button and the bone that were yesterday's takings and re-alphabetized the Travel section, I'll tell you about some of the books I've been reading. Bet you can't wait.

Meanwhile, speaking of smiley Jeff, if you are an independent bookseller, or otherwise, you may want to read this piece about eReaders n' shit by Patrick at the exemplary Vromans bookstore blog. Food for thought and then some.

Short selling, a brief introduction.

Overheard on a train yesterday.

Youth on mobile: Yeah, tell your brother not to bother about that game Shoot Them Till They're Dead Too 2...Yeah, he was going to get it for me but it's like £39.99, or if I order it from Amaz*n dot com it's $69.99 dollars...only Wayne, you know Wayne, he has a HMV voucher for £30.00 and he's going to sell it to me for £20.00 and the game is like £27.99 there, so it means I can buy it for like £20.00...Yeah, Shoot Them Till They're Dead too 2, it's wicked...so tell your brother I'm going to hang tight on it till Monday...bye...love you too, bye.