There was only one copy of The Spectator magazine left on the shelf. And it was in a crumpled state. It was obvious that it had been leafed through many times. The browsers that had violently flipped through the magazine had no consideration for the eventual buyer, if there were to be one, of said magazine. The pages were deformed and the cover had a huge fold mark on it.
Two choices were left to me. Buy this unsold second-hand copy or walk to the other side of town to purchase The Spectator in the only other shop that stocked it. There was a queue at the counter. I don’t like queues. I walked. Continue reading “The Royal hunt of The Spectator”
Boadicea's Chariot 