Capers and old books.

I leap off the bus and sling my backpack over my shoulders, the old straps which are threatening to give way any day now remind me that I really should invest in a new one, but I do it anyway, and hope they don't give before I get home. This backpack has been faithfully serving it's purpose since about 1997, and I might just get it repaired, not replaced, it's one of those silly emotional attatchment things..

It was around twenty past seven in the evening, though the sun in the spring sky was still so high you'd be forgiven for thinking it was four.
I'd left work, and gone bed hunting (unsuccessfully), then headed to do some grocery shopping at Capers, the organic supermarket chain over here. Afterwards I began making my way home, until I remembered, the shop, it closed at seven thirty..
I keep running, it isn't easy when you've got groceries in hand, and a heavy pack over your shoulders. I think I looked kinda comical as I bolted along, over the crosswalk, and towards the glass front-door. I've been meaning to visit this store for a couple of weeks now, but you know how it is..

I reach the entrance, the closed sign has been turned to face me, but the desk-lamp inside is still on.. Heaving to catch my breath (and trying not to puncture my lung again in the process), I open it up and walk in anyway.

It's a dark and musty establishment, hundreds, even thousands of old books line the walls, the smell of slightly damp old paper filters into my nose as I close the door behind me, causing the little silver bell hanging from the handle to tinkle.
I walk awkwardly over to the desk, the clerk is an elderly gentleman hunched over a notepad. He looks up, adjusting his glasses with a finger and peering at me as if I'm a late guest at a dinner party.
"Would you mind if I quickly bought something?" I ask.
He glances down at his watch somewhat disapprovingly. and with a lazy wave of his hand, mutters "sure..", then looks back to his pad.

I head to the window display. Some books are here from twenty, thirty even forty years ago.
Brilliant, sitting right where I saw it last time.
I pick it up, it's a heavy, old volume, beautiful hand-drawn illustration on the cover and gold lettering down the spine. They don't make em like they used to.
I open it up and look at the date.. It's an old one, for sure..
I head back over to the register, "Hi. How much are you asking for this one?" I ask.
"Ah, that's a beautiful book. You don't find many of them anymore." He says, gazing at the tome almost lovingly. "Thirty-five dollars".
I pay, thank him, and head out the door again, the bell tinkling faintly on the other side.

I get home, and put the book down on my bed, then with a quick glance at my watch, realise I have to get ready to go out.
So, I've got the book, now all I have to do is find the time to read the thing. You know how it is.

Jimzip :D