Jonny McCambridge: Separating fact from fiction – making a spectacle of myself in the new bookshop
I cannot now recall how I first learnt that a new bookshop had opened in the village.
A highly stylised version of events might go something like this. I was picking up French pastries from the local artisan bakery on a sunny weekend morning when I ran into an old acquaintance who simply insisted that I must accompany him for refreshments at one of the fine pavement cafes.
As we relaxed in the open air, sipping espressos in the light spring breeze, he leant forward and informed me, as one man of the world to another, of the opening of a new literary establishment nearby.
"Capital!” I would have replied gaily, “that’s just the place for a fellow like me!”
A more realistic version may be that my wife told me about the new shop after she was informed by a correspondent on one of the many WhatsApp groups that she frequents. As I said, I can’t really remember.
The point though is that the factual version was probably less romantic, less idealistic, than my wandering mind would have reimagined it to be.
Regardless, the opening of a new local and independent bookshop is something which I consider worthy of positive comment. I like to read, and I consider it one of life’s more worthwhile challenges to attempt to stay awake long enough to do it.
More than this, I have recently been trying to introduce some changes in my reading habits. It is true that I always have at least one book on the go (and usually several), but I’ve noticed that some of the joy has gone out of the process. I’ve attempted to identify reasons for this.
One could be material. Without making any decision to do it, I’ve slipped into the habit of reading more history and politics and less fiction.
While I’ve learnt plenty about the Cuban missile crisis or the dysfunctionality of Boris Johnson’s government during the Covid pandemic, I do miss being able to lose myself in a sweeping, epic story of love or the resilience of human character summoned from the imagination of a masterful storyteller.
Another problem may be medium. The vast majority of my reading is now done on Kindle. While there are undoubted advantages of convenience and affordability, it does not excite me in the way handling a book does; studying the front and back covers over and over, rolling my fingers along the edge of the pages.
Reading books electronically changes things. While I still consume the material within, I tend to lose sight of the wider experience.
I’ve found myself occasionally in the inexplicable situation of telling friends that I’m reading a great book, but that I do not know what it is called nor who is the author.
That never happened when I held a paperback or hardback in my hands.
And so, when the new shop opens so close to my home, it seems like the perfect opportunity to reacquaint myself with the love of printed books.
I resolve straightaway to visit, although first I allow myself several days to imagine how such an encounter will likely play out.
Such a location would, it seems logical to conclude, be a magnet for like-minded souls. I envisage the long literary conversations that I will surely engage in with the other patrons.
Reclining on sofas (there’s bound to be sofas) for hours as we share in our common love of reading. The real problem, I surmise, may well be the difficulties I will face in being able to leave the shop against the howls of protest of all my new friends.
And so, on a damp Wednesday morning, I arrive without fanfare at the new bookshop.
The space is small and, I notice, there are no other customers. The owner greets me warmly but, contrary to the plot I have internally constructed, does not immediately stick the kettle on or begin conversation.
I have come prepared for a reading expedition in that I have brought my glasses case.
As I begin to browse the many titles on the shelves, I fish it from my pocket and clip it open. It is empty. Without spectacles, the issue of my rapidly failing eyesight is (ahem) magnified.
I can see that there are books, many with brightly-coloured covers, I can even read some of the titles, but any ability to properly examine the tomes or gain an understanding of their contents has been fatally diminished.
My optical challenges exist in being unable to clearly see things which are close to my face.
Therefore, I attempt to compensate by creating distance, moving several feet away from the stacked shelves as I walk up and down the middle of the shop examining titles which are now well out of arm’s reach.
I notice that the shop owner is now viewing me with curiosity.
Under such observation and as the only customer, I feel an obligation to buy some books. I continue to browse.
When I see a title which may be of interest, I pick it up and attempt to read the back cover, but the words become blurry. I hold the book as far away from my face as I can manage, as one might do with a foul-smelling object. I strain my eyes.
The owner is watching me more intently now.
I form a new plan. I select several books and place them on the shelf with their back cover facing outwards.
Then I go to the other side of the shop and peer intently at them. I look like Superman trying to teach himself how to use his x-ray vision.
One of the titles I have propped up falls onto the wooden floor. It seems to create an almighty clatter.
“I think I’ll buy that one,” I mutter aloud.
I carry an armful of books to the counter.
I am looking forward to getting home to discover what new reading material I now own.
THE END.