Books have been hiding from me all morning. I'm trying to find page numbers so I can complete an academic article and I've been rummaging through the dustballs to find the books that have the missing page numbers in them.
At work I've moved offices and there is now a proper bookshelf; I've been carrying bags of books there daily so there is room in the house for me and the Offsprogs to sit down. The trouble is that quite a lot of the books here are rare or valuable. As their pages crumble with age, I wait in vain for them to be republished. This happened with Dave Laing's wonderful book One Chord Wonders, so I live in hope. Charlie Gillet's The Sound of the City is sitting beside me at the moment; it is a forensic examination of Race records and the way that white labels and artist co-opted (for that, read stole) music from black artists in the USA, all the way through the 20th Century.
I have actually read a lot of these books, and I use this fact as an excuse for my current solid diet of Danish crime thrillers washed down with Private Eye, which is thriving at the moment because everything is so awful in the real world out there.
Ah well. Toodle-pip!
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