As I glanced at the text on the computer screens I noticed a change in their layout. This had the effect of bewildering me to the spot; an occurrence that only happens when a shop changes its floor plan drastically without consulting me. Sensing my confused state from underneath a pile of books on her desk, the librarian’s opening gambit was the trusty, “can I help you.”
Not expecting conversation confounded me further that only after a pregnant pause could I explain I was here to use the library’s search facility machine. Pointing to the humming monitors she purred, this is the new, improved, user-friendly version. With the speed of a used-car salesman- salesperson doesn’t sound right, she was at my side extolling the virtues of the latest technology, hustling me into a chair and giving me an all-day city bus tour of the catalogued index.
She was going off at tangents and digressing further from what I originally wanted; a humorous memoir, if you must know. In danger of reaching my boredom threshold I stared at her full thighs. A veritable snooker table legs worth of cement was pumped into those jeans. Before I could analyse her blouse she had “found” the book I came in for.
“Oh dear! It’s for reference only.”
“Oh well, I’ll-“
“There’s another one for hire in another library. I can order it for you.”
Trying not to be bothersome I said I’ll buy the book in Waterstones. Suddenly she went on the offensive- her upper legs a literal battle of the bulge, advancing into my private space and barraging me with the “it’s better to hire than buy” hard sell. The book in question was on a level below us, she offered to let me have a browse of it and panzered down the stairs.
Left alone on the wrong floor I flicked through a few of the books nearby. Catching my eye was A Novel in a Year by someone called Doughty; a fitting surname for this poor excuse of how-to write a novel for dummies nonsense. I almost threw this piece of pulp in the bin before I remembered where I was and re-shelved it with the spine facing inwards.
The librarian hadn’t re-appeared, was the book “lost” i.e. miscataloged, and I had exhausted my limited possibilities for passing the time. I planned an exit strategy. Taking the stairs could mean bumping into her, a frightful thought, this left the lift. By experience I know the lift is unreliable and has a Pizza Hut waiting time. What if she were to see me standing by the lift? Without warning, an unseen hand touched my shoulder and I jumped. She had taken a staff only route back to this floor and handed me the book to browse.
“Thanks. Now if you hear me laughing out loud, don’t call the police.”
She went back to her desk and smothered the cushioned seat with her behind.
Boadicea's Chariot 