I sit here, the plastic tablecloth cool beneath my wrists. A family chatters in the corner, the youngest playfully sprawling over his mother's lap as she, giggling, struggles to hold him in place. To my right three girls reminisce, their guest an occasional contributor, his dark eyes watching each of them intently. The floor shudders and jumps with the thumping of a child's feet, amplified beyond her small size.
This is not my study but it should be...
Today has been a good day, the morning a race through the countryside, down road motorway to that haven of bookshops, Hay-on-Wye. The remainder was spent almost in paralysis, trying to decide what to buy, where to browse, how much to spend; what was a reasonable price to pay.
And then the floodgates are broken, cast aside with the contemptuous disregard of both temptation and opportunity alike. I wander from bookshop to bookshop, searching, seeking, but always browsing, open and amenable to serendipity. Books are seen, umm-ed and ahh-ed over. Decisions made, money exchanged, books a triumphant secret in my bag.
The rain falls, cream tea and open sandwiches my fuel against tiredness, the steaming mocha beside me a bulwark against flagging enthusiasm. Momentarily I stand, watching the world go by, watching the people ambling, books and crafts in hand. In the Poetry Bookshop an American couple discuss with the owner knowledgably and enthusiastically poems and poetry, parallels drawn with Country and Folk singing. The proprietor responds with charm and genuine interest.
I find more treasures, not those I sought, but treasures nonetheless.
Today has indeed been a good day...
Hay on Wye purchases