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Went Christmas shopping yesterday *shiver of horror*. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy finding gifts for my friends and who really doesn't enjoy the morning at the christmas tree when friends and their kids... and my own adult kids one with their 3 year old... make battle on the wrapping paper?
But it must be admitted crowds that aren't dancing up storms in dark clubs aren't my thing at all. There are some vicious folk out there, and no mistake.
I prefer to shop for books in small independantly run book shops because they most often have quirkier selections and I prefer to do business with a person rather than a soul-less multinational that uses the same marketing techniques for Chaucer and Dashiel Hammet as they would for hamburgers but the last one in my area was forced to the wall by Dymocks and Angus and Robertsons' in August. So for books it was off to Dymocks.
I wanted a copy of Kate Hudson's "In My Skin"; a recently published memoir by a Melbourne junkie and prostitute for my daughter (she is also getting new luggage for her upcoming trip to Egypt) and got to talking to the clerk about it. She was one of those people that spill over the side to anyone'll listen and in a trice I knew that despite her accent she was Australian born and bred and had attended the International School and did her degree at Wesleyan College in the US. What in the name of heaven was she doing in her present job? "What else can I do with a Masters' in French Literature of the Belle epoque?" I'd never heard anything more depressing. Other than a doctor telling me that the baby was dead, that is, but that was years ago and even that fades, eventually.
Because I'd spent a few hundred bucks on books the shop gave me a free copy of Michael Creighton's "Prey". Seeing it slipped into the shopping bag felt like an assault. Perhaps I can give it to someone I don't like much.
Went Christmas shopping yesterday *shiver of horror*. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy finding gifts for my friends and who really doesn't enjoy the morning at the christmas tree when friends and their kids... and my own adult kids one with their 3 year old... make battle on the wrapping paper?
But it must be admitted crowds that aren't dancing up storms in dark clubs aren't my thing at all. There are some vicious folk out there, and no mistake.
I prefer to shop for books in small independantly run book shops because they most often have quirkier selections and I prefer to do business with a person rather than a soul-less multinational that uses the same marketing techniques for Chaucer and Dashiel Hammet as they would for hamburgers but the last one in my area was forced to the wall by Dymocks and Angus and Robertsons' in August. So for books it was off to Dymocks.
I wanted a copy of Kate Hudson's "In My Skin"; a recently published memoir by a Melbourne junkie and prostitute for my daughter (she is also getting new luggage for her upcoming trip to Egypt) and got to talking to the clerk about it. She was one of those people that spill over the side to anyone'll listen and in a trice I knew that despite her accent she was Australian born and bred and had attended the International School and did her degree at Wesleyan College in the US. What in the name of heaven was she doing in her present job? "What else can I do with a Masters' in French Literature of the Belle epoque?" I'd never heard anything more depressing. Other than a doctor telling me that the baby was dead, that is, but that was years ago and even that fades, eventually.
Because I'd spent a few hundred bucks on books the shop gave me a free copy of Michael Creighton's "Prey". Seeing it slipped into the shopping bag felt like an assault. Perhaps I can give it to someone I don't like much.
But it must be admitted crowds that aren't dancing up storms in dark clubs aren't my thing at all. There are some vicious folk out there, and no mistake.
I prefer to shop for books in small independantly run book shops because they most often have quirkier selections and I prefer to do business with a person rather than a soul-less multinational that uses the same marketing techniques for Chaucer and Dashiel Hammet as they would for hamburgers but the last one in my area was forced to the wall by Dymocks and Angus and Robertsons' in August. So for books it was off to Dymocks.
I wanted a copy of Kate Hudson's "In My Skin"; a recently published memoir by a Melbourne junkie and prostitute for my daughter (she is also getting new luggage for her upcoming trip to Egypt) and got to talking to the clerk about it. She was one of those people that spill over the side to anyone'll listen and in a trice I knew that despite her accent she was Australian born and bred and had attended the International School and did her degree at Wesleyan College in the US. What in the name of heaven was she doing in her present job? "What else can I do with a Masters' in French Literature of the Belle epoque?" I'd never heard anything more depressing. Other than a doctor telling me that the baby was dead, that is, but that was years ago and even that fades, eventually.
Because I'd spent a few hundred bucks on books the shop gave me a free copy of Michael Creighton's "Prey". Seeing it slipped into the shopping bag felt like an assault. Perhaps I can give it to someone I don't like much.