I love a bookshop. I like big bookshops that smell of coffee. I like little bookshops that smell of books. I like second-hand bookshops that smell of age. I don’t think I’ve ever been into a bookshop with a particular book in mind. I might be able to narrow it down to a genre, but that’s as far as I go. And even that is subject to change. I am absolutely the sort of person to go into a bookshop, thinking about somebody’s birthday, I will select a book, or three, and then – I need to find them something else for their birthday. Mine is covered.
If you have a birthday coming up and you fancy buying yourself an ebook on the cheap – Sex, Death & Canapés is still on sale. Frankly, you’d spend more on a coffee and I’m much more entertaining.
Maybe no one else buys birthday presents for themselves. It’s not as desperate as it sounds. When I was younger and my birthday rocked around, my mother used to expect a present, because it was the anniversary of when she had a baby. She’d also send herself flowers for her own birthday.
I think books are better than flowers. Certainly they last longer. Also, you don’t have to find a splash of lemonade or a penny to pop into a vase.