Last night, I found myself with an hour or so to spare in the West End, so had a mooch around London's bookshops. I can't be overly romantic about it, as it was past six and all the Charing Cross booksellers were closed. Anyway, the toilets in the Waterstones on Piccadilly are very clean, in case you're ever caught short.
I was considering Khomeni's Ghost by Graham Reid or Berlin,Bromley by Bertie Marshall. I shall probably end up getting them both anyway. I toyed with the idea of a copy of the Monocle, but as I read somewhere: Magazines fuel an unobtainable lifestyle whereas books feed the soul - and I didn't fancy seeing adverts for expensive watches between articles.
I had made a commitment to myself that I would try and broaden my horizons - so I settled on a Child of the Jago by Arthur Morrison. Waterstones didn't have a copy. Hatchards offered to print me a copy, but it would take 2 weeks, so I had stroll to Foyles. I don't know if it is actually their policy but Foyles do seem to specialise in stocking books the others don't. So I was very happy to pick up a copy.
I started reading it on the bus home and felt smugly cerebral; I also immediately fell in love with the book.
It reminded me of how I felt when I read Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton and the familiarity of the settings. I've always believed that their pub was the Courtfield in Earls Court, can't remember whether it actually is in the book; or I've just convinced myself that over time.
Tonight I am making a cous cous dish and tomorrow I may relent and buy a pair of deck shoes.
