The Bookseller

A trail of destruction was almost complete as I set foot on threshold of the secondhand bookseller. In I walked with my Vango 70 + 10(without the 10) for to seek Orwell or Asimov, Dick, Baxter, Pratchett or Greene. When the wench spotted my weight she trembled that I was a bull made man as I swung like an elephant trunk my soiled laundry filled backpack to peruse the stacks and rows of yellowing penguin classics and Cornish tales. When I asked her where or whence the sci-fi was it appeared up a ramshackle wooded stair. ‘I can’t manage that with this bag’ ‘you old man’ she exclaimed ‘leave it down here’ ask she desperate for sales encouraged me. I thought about the book I had already got and the time I had left before the 9:53 back towards Leeds and I realized I hadn’t the time to ascend there: it wasn’t heaven me thinks? So I lingered a while on the ground and saw Greene, Galsworthy and Hardy arranged left to right and as I around the central shelving she shouts,’watch yourself’ as I swing around and almost take a stand of greetings cards with me to Leeds. I feel that she wanted my purchasing power and not my latent destructive power so much that once the ascension to heaven was out she wanted me gone from her shop. That weren’t fun for 5 minutes, but I didn’t miss my train and happily passing Penryn am I.


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