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Showing posts from January, 2018

The Bookshops of Harborough

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Christine's Bookcabin, Market Harborough

My dream for years now has been to open a second-hand bookshop. I love books: I love the look of them, the feel of them and the smell of them, and the older they are, the deeper my love goes. An old yellowing paperback with an inscription by a previous owner inside it is almost a holy relic for me.
But you need money to start a business; and usually a mortgage to obtain a bank loan. Increasingly, books don't seem like a viable business proposition either. Acquaintances who know about my book obsession, and my dream, tell me with a sort of glee that no one reads anymore. 
This is the sort of thing people who don't read themselves tend to say, or people who like to ring their hands about the decay of civilised values in the technological age. The world still reads. But they can buy a greater variety of books at a cheaper price on Amazon. I use that indie-gobbling corporate giant myself, although in my case it's because I have no a…

Poem: Trump's First Year

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With no frail ego that needs shoring up by pulverising those with different views, no love for money, power, influence, no wish to be a headline in the news,
taught by my mother that my home was Earth, that walls were artificial, people real, loving colour, language and diversity, preferring not the known, but what we feel,
I sank into a deep gloom watching Trump campaign to take the White House, then get in. His first year taught me that the triumph's mine, since I will never, ever be like him.