Having said that I did employ my new shop help-mate Jo after getting to know her through a conversation about blogging.
Just now, we were at the till together when a drunk who had been trying to have a conversation with us about science fiction, farted loudly, apologized and then continued his dithering.
When he had gone and we had finished pissing ourselves, Jo said, so are you going to blog it, or am I?
We have been far too busy for me to do my homework.
Anyway, here's a picture of a shoplifter.
Unless of course, it's Trevor from accounts, in which case, HEY TREVOR!. Why don't you sue me?
Amaz*n extend the 12 days of Christmas. I mean, I know we're all atheists now, but is this final proof that Jeff Bezos thinks he's God?
Well, at 8.25 I rolled out my yoga mat in the living room.
And at 8.25 and 10 seconds, somebody ordered a big drill.
It was mid-morning on Monday and Paris 1919 was playing on the stereo when the only person in the shop, a man with too many rings on his fingers, who, in an earlier time, might have been on nodding acquaintance with Aleister Crowley, came up to the counter and said, I just want to say, I have never, ever heard John Cale being played in the wild, in an open space before. This is fantastic!
He returned to browsing and then, an hour later - when in truth, the chorus I'm having tea with Graham Greene and the refrain welcome back to Chipping Sodbury had been heard maybe one time too many - he returned to the till with a big pile of books.
I totaled them up for him. That will be eighty-four pounds and twenty-six pence, I said.
Christ, he said, is it?
There was no one looking, I'll tell you what, I said, call it eighty and I'll throw in an extra Ballard.
The whole book market's gone crash ain't it, Jonathan?
Something like that Stan, I say.
I was just hearing about that big place up west, where you could get a coffee and a cake and all that.
I hand him a twenty-pound note.
But you're the exception to the rule then, Jonathan, are you?
Something like that Stan, I say.