On The Disappointments of Browsing

Bookshops are a waste of space. They add nothing. They need shooting. The lot of 'em.

Obviously, I'm messing about here. Toying with your deep-set J R Hartley related emotions. Obviously I do like bookshops. I enjoy browsing. But there is always disappointment. It's like fish'n'chips. The idea of browsing is better than the actual act. Mushy peas or no mushy peas.

I always get hot. I always start to get back ache. I never find a book that engrosses me beyond belief. I get agitated by the superfluous 'tat' shelf selling cuddly Gruffalo key rings and J K Rowling tea cosies. I get wound up seeing Alex James's face everywhere. And I always end up browsing through books I already have (Today it was Sum by David Eagleman).

I also selfishly bemoan the fact that the unpublished book I've written wouldn't fall comfortably into any particular section. There's never a 'NINE PERCENT FICTITIOUS DIARIES OF THIRTY SOMETHINGS ON THEIR DAY OFF' category.

But as with fisn'n'chips these disappointments will never stop me coming back for more. I'll leave you in the more than capable hands of Samuel Johnson:
'Disappointment, when it involves neither shame nor loss, is as good as success; for it supplies as many images to the mind, and as many topics to the tongue."