i would be the Rabid Bookseller. here to expound gobbily upon any subject that grabs my tangent-prone imagination; with specific reference to books, and the floggin thereof.
today i'm uncharacteristically unRabid, but i'm sure that will change. i live and work in one of those medium sized New towns that pepper England like rabbit turds. i work for a large book retailing chain, a job that started with joy and enthusiasm, and has gradually angered me beyond normal repair. i made a grave mistake in entering an industry that knows a lot about business and very little really about books. Though recently even my employer's commercial sense has become questionable.
why do i not quit, you ask?
three current reasons;
- like all angry folk, i rather lack any personal confidence. and i have an unerring tendency to cling doggedly to any rut i find.
- i rather love books, and i rather like selling them. To some people. Some of the time.
- and i also love the rather nice discount said job gives me on books.
so there you go: i am actually rather sweet, vulnerable, even. but like the rest of you, i imagine, prone to taking the benefits (cash or otherwise) and squishing my eyes up moistily in nostalgic though of happier days in the job. i'm also prone to over-writing, can you tell?
i suck. but NOT AS MUCH AS THEY DO!
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