“They look untidy.”
I bridle, hackles rise. “They’re not there to look tidy.”
“You can’t possibly have read them all.”
The eyes narrow. “Wanna bet?” Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I hadn’t read the leftover footballer’s memoirs I’d bought him for Christmas. Or the car mechanic’s manuals. Nor had I any intention of doing so.
The books were always a contentious problem. In an ideal world there would be a room where I could simply insulate myself from the world with wall to wall volumes, stacked perhaps by author or even subject with utter disregard for aesthetics. On open fire, a comfy chair, dog asleep on the rug and a glass of wine… Of course, we don’t live in an ideal world and the books had, to be fair, taken up residence in practically every available space. In a house that had suddenly filled with extra people, that was admittedly…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 