It transpires that Bob really is a wanted man. Amenable, and an avid reader of literature, his presence bothers nobody in the shop, least of all me. Eventually caught by police at Montpellier train station, he is extradited back to Britain from where his solicitor contacts me to request a character reference. I willingly comply. There is mention at a Parole Tribunal of a now banned medicine once used for treating epilepsy and Bob is soon released.
Lecturers and authors breach the shop’s entrance but I find myself more intrigued by the conversations I have with society’s more disaffected members.
Hailing originally from Ladbroke Grove, Tony the tramp has been eking out a beggar’s existence for at least a decade in southern France. A diminutive, handsome man, Tony has lived with the gypsies but is now a confirmed inhabitant of the streets. He confesses to having stolen books from outside my first shop but I can’t muster any real anger such is his likeable demeanour, providing he’s not too far gone on wine. We lend pens and help to compose heartrending slogans, on pieces of cardboard, designed to elicit sympathy and cash. Anne gives Tony soup and he genuinely wants to help our fortunes;offering to distribute flyers about the town. One day he is excited because Motörhead are in town. Tony intends to beg a guitar off Lemmy, a former friend, but he misses the concert because of an exceptionally drunken binge.
There are people who believe my working in an English bookshop is proof of an allegiance to all things English, exclusively so. I am required on occasion to point out that the shop contains just as many American authors. And also helping to fill the shelves are plenty of books by Welsh, Irish and Scottish writers.
A great deal of social intercourse is involved in running the shop. Sometimes it is welcome, but there are days when you lose the will to haul up the shop shutters. Montpellier is an increasingly popular destination for English speaking holiday-makers . I give them a potted history of the city, extolling its attributes and warning them about its high petty crime rate. Some express their thanks and buy the guidebook recommended at the end of my spiel. But I grow quickly wary of the tourists who monopolise my time before deciding that they have quite enough ‘reading material’ on them. So why walk into a bookshop? The tourist board would more usefully employ me. I begin to recognise the signs that betray a determined non-buyer. Overly effusive in their praise of the city, they merely want to communicate this fact with someone who speaks their language. I develop a tactic to uncover some paperwork requiring my urgent attention. This doesn’t always work though and I can find myself trapped, longing to escape. One spring morning a softly spoken Canadian walks into the shop, introducing himself as ‘Don Bell, book scout.’ He has difficulty breathing but manages to convey his intriguing life style; that of cruising the bookshops and flea markets in Paris.Our conversation makes me hanker for the open road. I recognise a fellow spirit but learn only after out meeting that he wrote a book, Saturday Night at the Bagel Factory , that won the 1973 Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for humour.
Prague, February 1996
The air is cold but invigorating. I’m staying with my brother and his Czech girlfriend who live here. I knew that Czechs were big on beer but their penchant for ice cream has come as a surprise.
Tom and Katka give me a potted tour of the city before taking me to the Globe Bookstore. It exudes a welcoming atmosphere (all the buildings in this city seem to have a surplus of heat) and they serve hot food as well as cakes. I note the international newspapers and permit myself a quick scan of the books whose prices are higher than I expected. A friend tells me of someone who buys second-hand books in bulk from charity book depots to sell to shops throughout Europe. As you head east the prices
Lecturers and authors breach the shop’s entrance but I find myself more intrigued by the conversations I have with society’s more disaffected members.
Hailing originally from Ladbroke Grove, Tony the tramp has been eking out a beggar’s existence for at least a decade in southern France. A diminutive, handsome man, Tony has lived with the gypsies but is now a confirmed inhabitant of the streets. He confesses to having stolen books from outside my first shop but I can’t muster any real anger such is his likeable demeanour, providing he’s not too far gone on wine. We lend pens and help to compose heartrending slogans, on pieces of cardboard, designed to elicit sympathy and cash. Anne gives Tony soup and he genuinely wants to help our fortunes;offering to distribute flyers about the town. One day he is excited because Motörhead are in town. Tony intends to beg a guitar off Lemmy, a former friend, but he misses the concert because of an exceptionally drunken binge.
There are people who believe my working in an English bookshop is proof of an allegiance to all things English, exclusively so. I am required on occasion to point out that the shop contains just as many American authors. And also helping to fill the shelves are plenty of books by Welsh, Irish and Scottish writers.
A great deal of social intercourse is involved in running the shop. Sometimes it is welcome, but there are days when you lose the will to haul up the shop shutters. Montpellier is an increasingly popular destination for English speaking holiday-makers . I give them a potted history of the city, extolling its attributes and warning them about its high petty crime rate. Some express their thanks and buy the guidebook recommended at the end of my spiel. But I grow quickly wary of the tourists who monopolise my time before deciding that they have quite enough ‘reading material’ on them. So why walk into a bookshop? The tourist board would more usefully employ me. I begin to recognise the signs that betray a determined non-buyer. Overly effusive in their praise of the city, they merely want to communicate this fact with someone who speaks their language. I develop a tactic to uncover some paperwork requiring my urgent attention. This doesn’t always work though and I can find myself trapped, longing to escape. One spring morning a softly spoken Canadian walks into the shop, introducing himself as ‘Don Bell, book scout.’ He has difficulty breathing but manages to convey his intriguing life style; that of cruising the bookshops and flea markets in Paris.Our conversation makes me hanker for the open road. I recognise a fellow spirit but learn only after out meeting that he wrote a book, Saturday Night at the Bagel Factory , that won the 1973 Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for humour.
Prague, February 1996
The air is cold but invigorating. I’m staying with my brother and his Czech girlfriend who live here. I knew that Czechs were big on beer but their penchant for ice cream has come as a surprise.
Tom and Katka give me a potted tour of the city before taking me to the Globe Bookstore. It exudes a welcoming atmosphere (all the buildings in this city seem to have a surplus of heat) and they serve hot food as well as cakes. I note the international newspapers and permit myself a quick scan of the books whose prices are higher than I expected. A friend tells me of someone who buys second-hand books in bulk from charity book depots to sell to shops throughout Europe. As you head east the prices
Similar Books
