The rain is cold and the sky a deep brooding purple. I shuffle into a book shop, more to take shelter than to browse. An old man sits at a computer. I can see the blue screen reflected in his spectacles. I get the impression that he is attempting to figure out the machine’s purpose, appraising its benefits over pen and paper. Of course, an antique bookshop owner does not understand computers: he is a Luddite, a stoical type that lives for the smell of must and the tack of a forgotten tome’s dusty pages on his fingertips.
I allow my eyes to drift over the spines of books that will never interest me, worried by the squelch of my trainer. I sense that I am not welcome or at least not expected in this environment. I need tweed, white hair and a polished middle-class burr that hints at an earthy link to the area, but also to a profession and appreciation of the finer things in life.
To the left of the wonderfully labelled section, “Women’s Issues”, I discover five very steep steps leading up to another level. I ascend and view the bookshop from an aerial perspective, looking down at the man still staring at his computer, not typing or rolling the mouse, simply staring.
My voice when I say hello does not convey an organic regional timbre nor does it hint of affluence or enjoyment of the finer things. We are both aware that I am just killing time, sheltering from the rain. I pick out an ornate copy of a Hemingway novel. The spine is decorated with a colourful motif of entwined flowers – I can’t help but think Hemingway would have been deeply offended by such a feminine design. I contemplate drawing a cock and two bulging testicles on the spine. For Hemingway’s sake, I think, fingering the pen in my bag. Knowing my luck, the owner probably has CCTV rigged up; I glance up into the corner at what might be a minute lens peering at me from between a Dickens first edition and an oversized copy of the Victorian Garden. Maybe that’s what he’s watching on the computer, CCTV footage, keeping a careful watch over his fusty flock.
I decide to test him. I palm the Hemingway novel and descend the stairs and wedge it firmly between two books in the “Women’s Issues” section. The flowers catch a shaft of light that has pushed in from outside. The sky is clearing. It’s time for me to leave. Unbelievably he thanks me as I push open the door – I’m not sure why, but I like to think it’s because he saw it all on his screen, caught every nuance of my Hemingway scheme and in turn finally worked out a purpose for his computer.
Like this, try the Weight of My Soul – a blog on temping in Bristol.