in which i am barely discernable from a female giles
This morning, watching the steam from my father's coffee unravel into the sharp bright morning light, I thought, how does anyone hurry through life without noticing the small beautiful details of everything?
That is what a lot of today has been like. I woke promptly at seven by, it seems, sheer force of will, and lay in bed for a while, because bed is very cosy and it wants to be lain in, especially on a thinly blue Saturday morning with the radio telling stories on the bedside table. And then I wandered downstairs, which was strange and quiet because no-one else was up, and that was a strange thing indeed -- not that no-one would be up at seven, but that I would be up in the morning before anyone else! The world of the morning: when small sounds are louder in the hush and silver, and everything is stiller and slower and means more.
Dad drove me. I knocked on the plastic enclosure around the shop, and was greeted by... the manager. Eep. I was a little intimidated about working with Jim all day, because even though he seems to really like me, and lobbied to add me to the payroll after the kiosk closed, he's still The Manager, and my co-workers talk about him as though he's rather difficult to work with (and occasionally making offhand warnings to me -- "Jim will probably yell at you about this", or "Jim is really, really fussy about that"). And I am new and make so many mistakes! But he actually turned out to be the best person I've worked with so far -- making certain to think of things I might need to learn or know about and showing me how things work and explaining to me some of the weird details about shelving and organising that people never remember to tell me until I've done something horrible to disrupt them. He explained everything so well, and was so kind and helpful and comfortable about it that I almost never felt self-conscious, as I usually do. And I worked much better today even than Wednesday -- I felt confident and a little more sure about what to tell people and how to help them and where to send them for things, and I managed to order a book for someone with hardly any help. (There are a lot of steps, and Things Upon Which I Must Never Click.)
Also, I sold so many copies of Twilight & sequels, it was postively obscene. (Jim said, so, you've never seen Twilight? I told him that I had read the book several years ago, and was so infuriated by it that I would have defaced it had it not been a library copy. He laughed, and said that his wife had said much the same thing.)
I felt so very happy all day, even if I was missing my library trip and Hockman's. Books books lovely books everywhere (and lots of horrible disgraces to the name of book certainly, but that, alas, is consumerism), and people looking for books, and taking them home, and me getting to give them to people! And put them on shelves! And find interesting ones, and note down the titles in case I want to borrow them later! And, er, buy them myself, on my lunch break, which I spent a) at Jim's desk in the back room (everyone eats there), swinging in the swivel chair, reading Sunshine and eating cold last-night's-dinner, and b) scouring the bookstore for something to borrow, and ended up taking advantage of a 40% off coupon to buy myself A Countess Below Stairs, and then borrowing another Eva Ibbotson and the third Dresden Files book.
Oddest moment of the day: an elderly woman showed up to buy fifty dollars' worth of bookmarks. The mind, it boggles.
Once, overwhelmed with the sheer splendour of working in a bookstore, I forgot myself and twirled a tiny little twirl of glee behind the counter. Only... there was a customer. Oh dear. I righted myself and processed her things. She said, "Dancing, are you?" I leaned forward, as if to tell her a secret. "I really, really love my job," I said. She smiled.
(I'm not entirely certain this is allowed, to love one's job. This much, especially. I love it even though it is full of capitalism and sometimes my co-workers are cross and often I am floundering about like a large dog coming in from the rain, trying to understand what I am doing and how to do it, and the company has so many silly rules and legislations that I must follow. But I am a book diplomat, and get to climb ladders and make small children happy and recommend Neil Gaiman. It is wonderful.)
Mum picked me up, and spring is close, because it was still light for a long time after I came home. I have spent the remainder of my evening curled up on my bed or on the living room sofa reading Eva Ibbotsen and listening to music and to people, and later, after dinner, reading Eva Ibbotsen to candlelight and lamplight and fairy-lights on my bed, with the last slice of Dad's spectacular pie and a cold glass of milk and music lulling softly from the bedside table.
That is what a lot of today has been like. I woke promptly at seven by, it seems, sheer force of will, and lay in bed for a while, because bed is very cosy and it wants to be lain in, especially on a thinly blue Saturday morning with the radio telling stories on the bedside table. And then I wandered downstairs, which was strange and quiet because no-one else was up, and that was a strange thing indeed -- not that no-one would be up at seven, but that I would be up in the morning before anyone else! The world of the morning: when small sounds are louder in the hush and silver, and everything is stiller and slower and means more.
Dad drove me. I knocked on the plastic enclosure around the shop, and was greeted by... the manager. Eep. I was a little intimidated about working with Jim all day, because even though he seems to really like me, and lobbied to add me to the payroll after the kiosk closed, he's still The Manager, and my co-workers talk about him as though he's rather difficult to work with (and occasionally making offhand warnings to me -- "Jim will probably yell at you about this", or "Jim is really, really fussy about that"). And I am new and make so many mistakes! But he actually turned out to be the best person I've worked with so far -- making certain to think of things I might need to learn or know about and showing me how things work and explaining to me some of the weird details about shelving and organising that people never remember to tell me until I've done something horrible to disrupt them. He explained everything so well, and was so kind and helpful and comfortable about it that I almost never felt self-conscious, as I usually do. And I worked much better today even than Wednesday -- I felt confident and a little more sure about what to tell people and how to help them and where to send them for things, and I managed to order a book for someone with hardly any help. (There are a lot of steps, and Things Upon Which I Must Never Click.)
Also, I sold so many copies of Twilight & sequels, it was postively obscene. (Jim said, so, you've never seen Twilight? I told him that I had read the book several years ago, and was so infuriated by it that I would have defaced it had it not been a library copy. He laughed, and said that his wife had said much the same thing.)
I felt so very happy all day, even if I was missing my library trip and Hockman's. Books books lovely books everywhere (and lots of horrible disgraces to the name of book certainly, but that, alas, is consumerism), and people looking for books, and taking them home, and me getting to give them to people! And put them on shelves! And find interesting ones, and note down the titles in case I want to borrow them later! And, er, buy them myself, on my lunch break, which I spent a) at Jim's desk in the back room (everyone eats there), swinging in the swivel chair, reading Sunshine and eating cold last-night's-dinner, and b) scouring the bookstore for something to borrow, and ended up taking advantage of a 40% off coupon to buy myself A Countess Below Stairs, and then borrowing another Eva Ibbotson and the third Dresden Files book.
Oddest moment of the day: an elderly woman showed up to buy fifty dollars' worth of bookmarks. The mind, it boggles.
Once, overwhelmed with the sheer splendour of working in a bookstore, I forgot myself and twirled a tiny little twirl of glee behind the counter. Only... there was a customer. Oh dear. I righted myself and processed her things. She said, "Dancing, are you?" I leaned forward, as if to tell her a secret. "I really, really love my job," I said. She smiled.
(I'm not entirely certain this is allowed, to love one's job. This much, especially. I love it even though it is full of capitalism and sometimes my co-workers are cross and often I am floundering about like a large dog coming in from the rain, trying to understand what I am doing and how to do it, and the company has so many silly rules and legislations that I must follow. But I am a book diplomat, and get to climb ladders and make small children happy and recommend Neil Gaiman. It is wonderful.)
Mum picked me up, and spring is close, because it was still light for a long time after I came home. I have spent the remainder of my evening curled up on my bed or on the living room sofa reading Eva Ibbotsen and listening to music and to people, and later, after dinner, reading Eva Ibbotsen to candlelight and lamplight and fairy-lights on my bed, with the last slice of Dad's spectacular pie and a cold glass of milk and music lulling softly from the bedside table.