Words by Sara Philippidis.
Bookstores, for me, have always been an Aladdin’s cave of hidden treasures. The musty smell, the endless rows of magical pages that will take me away to another world – allow me to ignore my red letter bills for a brief period of time, and immerse myself in a fantasy.
Bookstores are also ideal for people watching. You don’t believe me? Recently, I was perusing Daunt Books on the Fulham Road, and was sidetracked from my novel-buying mission by the blatant and incorrigible flirting that was taking place between a rather attractive middle-aged woman and the young, blushing cashier – the blonde in question was dazzling the young boy with her knowledge on Nietzsche and Kafka. So immersed was I in the potential romantic liaison that I ended up hastily buying a John Updike book that I had already read, simply to trail their conversation (yes, I am a crazed stalker, and obviously lacking a life, but this is what happens when you spend all day long indoors, in a relationship with your laptop).
Daunt books in Marylebone is my favourite store, and makes me yearn for the old days of dusty old book-shops, the kind that are increasingly disappearing from our streets only to be replaced with either impersonal branches of Waterstones, or nothing. Amazon has risen to the top of the bookstore Empire, and is something that I myself am guilty of supporting through my sheer laziness and increasing agoraphobia.
There is a Daunt books hierarchy, also. Many times have I been walking the streets and spotted someone carrying a Daunt Books bag – it is like a secret society. We smile shyly, nod our head, and continue walking on, confident in the fact that we belong. You yourself may have spotted the white satchels with green font being carried around the street. You may have even seen the slightly larger and much cooler green satchel, but apparently – and this is something I have only just discovered – there is also a red satchel (and no, I don’t have one). The red is clearly a much less common, rarer satchel, and is obvious proof of being on some higher intellectual plane in the Daunt echelon of customers than I myself am. I am now, of course, determined to get my envious, twitching hands on one.
I, sadly, am not an intellectual. I am largely to be found rifling through the endless Romance books that sit colourfully on the bookshelves, and in the two for one pile. It all began at the tender age of sixteen when my Aunt, with whom I was living at the time, handed me a rather large box filled with Mills & Boons novels – my introduction to sex and romance. I would like to think that my taste in literature has developed since then, but I am still guilty of having a penchant for a good Cinderella story, and for a happy ending.
Recently, I was forced to visit an entirely different section of the bookstore, and no, it was not in Daunt Books, who were much too English to stock the sort of information I was after. I was having to research sex books for a project – a project, I swear (you don’t believe me for a second, do you?), and so I boldly walked up to the cashier refusing to be embarrassed or intimidated, and, in my loudest voice, asked where I could find books on sex and sexual dysfunction. I was determined not to be intimidated by his knowing stare, but regrettably, there was no concealing the blush that crept not only to my face but also over my entire body. Quietly, I was ushered to a hidden corner of the store where the lowest shelf was designated to books on everything concerning sex, and where – and this is the part I was most surprised at – I witnessed more women crowded around one tiny shelf than I have ever seen in my life. Crouched down in concentration, arms overflowing with books on sex, positions, dysfunction and more, we exchanged shy smiles, and I felt like I had infiltrated myself into another secret society. That shelf was hidden in the darkest corner of the store, and was by far the busiest – I quite literally had to fight harder for a sex book than a cut price Stella McCartney dress at a sample sale.
The moral of my story is, I suppose, that bookstores are where it’s at these days. Close down your Amazon browser and walk to your nearest bookstore; you may just meet the intellectual of your dreams or the sexpot you’ve been searching for. Bookstores are the new speed dating.
Image: The interior of Daunt Books, Marylebone.
Daunt Books (Click Here)
