This morning I awoke from a weirdly erotic dream about David Mitchell, and sprang out of bed in my new abode. I took this as a sign, dear reader, that for a blog post I ought to get intellectual, or at least a bit more book-themed.
Rivka and I have been slowly and steadily unpacking boxes for a couple of days, and have noticed that we have a few books in common. More than a few. We think we could probably set up mirror shelves either side of the fireplace and see how long it took anyone to notice. At first the books were all higgledy-piggledy and slung on anywhere as we were trying to get some boxes emptied so we could physically move around in the flat. This morning, while waiting for the nice man from the phone company to fix the phoneline, I started to rearrange them a little more carefully.
I’m still not happy, and of course there’s never enough shelf space, but I have a little dilemma. I like to be careful what books are out on public display. I don’t want all my books bound in leather and all matching, or anything, I just want people to think I have good taste. Essentially, I want to show off. I want a range of genres and authors with a mix of classic and contemporary work, a couple of obscure titles so people have to ask about them (or quietly marvel at my amazingness) and maybe a couple of trashy paperbacks to show I’m still human.
Is that too much to ask?
Here are my current two sorted shelves, subject to alteration and not legally binding:
By all means come and visit, we can have some red wine and idle by the fireplace discussing the juxtaposition of modern fantasy with classic Romanticism. Mind your head, though, the ceilings are a little low in places.