stickygirl
All the witches
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2012
- Posts
- 22,339
I got a chance today to visit a s/h bookshop I'd seen, because we love old book shops, don't we?
"Good morning," I said brightly to the man who appeared to be 'in charge' but was met with a stoney silence.
'How odd' I thought to myself, feeling a twinge of guilt for perhaps intruding, of making a sound, as I made a brief tour of the shelves. There was an elderly man, stooped into the letter G, book in hand, it's faded leather cover matching his parchment skin. I discovered another man, East European with a big nose, toward the rear of the shop, uncomfortable in the narrow space between tottering shelves.
'Perhaps the first man doesn't work here and I hailed him by mistake?' I pondered as I frown-skimmed the biroed labels, Science Fiction, Photography, Biography. 'Perhaps he's actually deaf?'
I determined to leave, having nicely balanced brevity with politeness. I approached the counter at the shop door. The deaf man, now seated, had flakey skin on his thinning grey pate as he focused on a tricky book-binding repair, sellotape in hand.
"Thank you!" I smiled, standing opposite him, where he could acknowledge me without even raising his head.
Still nothing.
Perhaps he's deaf and blind as well, tending to rare braille books by touch? Or perhaps he was just a cunt?
I won't be back.
"Good morning," I said brightly to the man who appeared to be 'in charge' but was met with a stoney silence.
'How odd' I thought to myself, feeling a twinge of guilt for perhaps intruding, of making a sound, as I made a brief tour of the shelves. There was an elderly man, stooped into the letter G, book in hand, it's faded leather cover matching his parchment skin. I discovered another man, East European with a big nose, toward the rear of the shop, uncomfortable in the narrow space between tottering shelves.
'Perhaps the first man doesn't work here and I hailed him by mistake?' I pondered as I frown-skimmed the biroed labels, Science Fiction, Photography, Biography. 'Perhaps he's actually deaf?'
I determined to leave, having nicely balanced brevity with politeness. I approached the counter at the shop door. The deaf man, now seated, had flakey skin on his thinning grey pate as he focused on a tricky book-binding repair, sellotape in hand.
"Thank you!" I smiled, standing opposite him, where he could acknowledge me without even raising his head.
Still nothing.
Perhaps he's deaf and blind as well, tending to rare braille books by touch? Or perhaps he was just a cunt?
I won't be back.
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