Just a short note - I am pretty much over my nasty winter illness and am out of town visiting a friend. I am laying around eating delicious things such as 70% dark chocolate flavoured with mint shards, garlic mashed potatoes, and fatkes with apple sauce. I am snug and comfortable and deep into Anthony Trollope's The Eustace Diamonds. We watched The Wrestler and were sad because it was really good; we watched a recent episode of Bones and were sad because it was a shit storm of embarrassing awfulness. And I'm not buying books.
I also attended a very enjoyable party last night, peopled by my favourite kind of people - funny and mean people. One person offhandedly revealed that she lives near the owner of one of the bookstores I like here and that she sees him - frequently - going in and out of the seedy adult video store on their street. This is what you get for being internet-averse - people can too easily discover that you're a perv and/or not getting laid. This knowledge makes my skin crawl and I never want to go to this shop again. Am I too prissy to live or what? I know. But there it is.
I like my booksellers mean, abrupt, rude, smelly, flakey, obsessed with conspiracy theories or the British royal family, given to pissing on the legs of customers who say how much they like The Secret, or even illiterate - but pervy? I cannae bear it. Sigh.