Oh hai! How was your weekend? Mine was good. I discovered this place where they will let you take books out and you can read them. For free. Yes, I am quite disturbed to say I have never joined my local library the entire time I’ve been in Australia. I know, poor form. So I wandered down to join my suburban book depository, and there I found the Tiniest Library Ever. Seriously, it was like someone’s back room with some books in it. And way more DVDs and magazines than books, even. Oh, and children’s books, but I’ve no problems with that. Why so few books? And, once I started browsing, why ALL THE SAME books over and over again? How many copies of Diana Gabaldon do you need? (and I hasten to add, I love a red-heided Scotsman as much as the next girl, but a whole shelf? Really? When there’s only like 200 shelves in total?) Although I have to say that when I last went to the library, they didn’t email you to tell you when your books were due. I heartily endorse this use of technology, especially the part which tells you the names of the books you’ve taken out. For those of us who might, um, forget.
Speaking of books, I got my hair cut on Friday and I remembered to take a book so that I didn’t have to read painfully stylish fashion magazines (say what you will, there’s not a lot of actual reading to be had out of Vogue). I took “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, which I just bought in its reincarnation as an orange Penguin, for just this sort of occasion. However, apparently bringing a BOOK, with WORDS, was the most fascinating thing to have happened in that place for weeks. Other customers were staring at me with outright fascination. Every stylist that touched my head just HAD to ask me about it. Sadly, very few knew the book; a select few knew the movie, but most just looked interested. Or pretended to, at any rate. Then again, the average age of the stylists would have been 22, and I don’t know how much “history” these young people learn. Whereas I, 10 miles, in the snow, both ways, don’t know the meaning of hard work, etc. I don’t know if I’ve written this here, but a previous time I went here for a cut I asked for about 2 inches off the bottom. The young stylist looked at me wraptly, like I was speaking a foreign language. “Well, how much do you think I should cut off?” I asked worriedly. She brightened, and said, “Um, about five centimetres?” Bless.