I’ve worked in the book trade on and off since my very first job as a temporary, just-until-Christmas, don’t-get-any-ideas dogsbody in a bookshop in my gap year. Predictably, I got hooked. Equally predictably, I stayed for the whole year and then came back for more.
When I moved to London after graduating I simply repeated the pattern. I fought against it, with a brief foray into advertising, but soon found myself back in the world of books. From bookshop to bookshop, from publisher to publisher, events conspired to ensure that I accumulated a vast number of books along the way. I had nothing to do with it (officer); they found me.
I now work as a freelance writer and editor and live in Snowdonia, miles away from the nearest Waterstones but completely and instantly connected to t’internet. In an attempt to break my habit and renew my acquaintance with some old and neglected friends, I have started the Year of Random Reading. I roll the dice, go to the bookshelf that fate decides, roll the dice again for the specific shelf, and then once more to take me to the book I will read.
And I am not allowed to buy anything new.
Or second hand.
Well, except for…
(And I’m committed to books. Those things with paper and pages.)