When staying in someone else’s house (which I am), I often spend time perusing the bookshelves. Not to judge (heaven forfend), but to see if there’s anything I might like to read.
I’m trying to ignore the Joy Of Sex which seems to be being used as a coffee table book here (it’s not a glass topped one), and is open on a page that looks like a beard has become self-aware.
On the bulging bookcase I find more promise. Hidden behind a photo of the family toads, there’s a rare copy of Drinking Tea With Hitler by Unity Mitford. It’s been signed by the author too, which is nice. Especially the love and kisses inscription.
Also nice to see an entire shelf dedicated to books written by me. They’ve all had the pages torn out, and many of them have an odd odour of vomit, so it looks like they’ve been well read and loved.
Quite a lot of popular science books too, all with titles like Letters From God’s Babysitter, Learn To Learn In Six Seconds, and How To Eat Poor People. Good to see a rational bent on display.
And on the bottom shelf is a stack of 1970s pornographic magazines that look like they’ve been rescued from their natural habitat in the woods. Shame to see them trussed up on a shelf like this and not roaming free in the brush, but they need to be preserved I guess.
