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For the most part I think I can shop just like the rest of them. It is crowds I hate. That is my excuse. I refuse to believe I am a failure as a woman.
During this year’s Boxing Day sales I managed to puchase two pairs of running socks, before the crowds descended. I retreated. I waited. And then I drove home.
On his ***e*o** the good Dr. Roger has an album in which he captures his friends in a particular moment; and of me he has this snapshot:
*Aku curi gambar ni dari Tuan Dokter*
This was taken during a mad weekend where the boys came up to Lancaster for a birthday barbeque of sorts. Every time I had friends over to visit, I make it a point to take them to this particularly interesting second-hand book joint – the Old Pier Bookshop. Having since moved South, I have never found a bookshop that offers anything even close to the charm and quaintness of this particular establishment.
So yesterday, since I was in the area, I found myself directing friends into the general direction of the bookshop; and it wasn’t long before I was browsing. Scouring titles of the Terry Pratchett persuasion, the owner – who’s name I’ve never learnt – came up and said, “It’s been a while since you wandered in here!” Either I am his only customer or he has an excellent memory. I told him I’d since moved South, but every once in a while when I am back in the area I’d definitely wander in.
I left with five new titles, and the interesting information that Terry Pratchett worked in Lancaster for a while and Ankh-Morpork is a direct reference to Lancaster and Morecambe, and an understanding as to why whatever it is that you do, when you end up doing something that you love, it is well worth it. How’s about a futsal court for ladies where secondhand books are flowing in abundance, eh? Now that’s the life.
The Morecambe Visitor on the Old Pier Bookshop.
My previous write up on the bookshop.
Sort of. I took the train up north to spend the Xmas week with mates here. When not in Bangi, I think Lancaster is the closest to ‘home’ I can get at the moment. Part of me thinks it’s because people I know are still here, but it’s not that in entirety. There are other things about this pitiful excuse for a city that makes me fond of it. Cobbled paths, friendly folk, northern curmudgeoness.. it’s a great place to escape the efficiency and sterility of the South, where every foreign face is met with a suspicious glance. Or so I think. I am, of course, biased to all things northern.
The train was chock full of people, all leaving the bustle of the city for home – the distinct northern twang in everyone on the train made me feel at home straight away. With this being the Christmas season and everyone going home, large suitcases jostled with weary bodies, many carrying clumsily wrapped presents in separate paper bags for fear that sticking them in the suitcase would squash everything that Barclaycard so conveniently paid for. I like clumsily wrapped presents. There is an earnestness that goes with it glaringly absent from store-wrapped gifts.
Unlike the last time I travelled to Lancaster by train, which found me stuck in between the vestibules on a makeshift seat made out of my jacket and part of my knapsack, I booked a seat on this train. A lady in front of me did not, and her daughter, who was clearly travel sick sat in the aisle with a plastic bag under her chin for fear of launching a projectile stream of vomit across the already stuffy coach. There were moments when I was tempted to offer my seat to the poor kid, but for some reason I didn’t. Instead, the gentleman across the aisle from me did; and when he walked, Graham Greene novel and all, to stand at the end of the coach while the young girl took his place – and technically now able to aim everything projectile in my general direction – I felt a familiar twang. Guilt.
At least I was less rude than the girl who, as a result of a clash of seat numbers, demanded that another lady and her child get out of the seat under contest so she, shopping bags and all, could sit down. Bitch. Instead she found another empty seat nearby. (Gallant gentleman of the Graham Greene readers club offered his seat instead. I swear the words, “Is it because I is black?” ran through the mind of the other lady quite loudly).