August 10 is Love Your Bookshop Day. And I put it to you that nobody loves a bookshop quite like me.
The evidence of my undying love for bookshops can be found on the shelves of my spare bedroom cum book storage. I recently corralled all the books I have purchased but haven’t got around to reading. There were 132.
Some people would think that’s too many, a sign that no more books should be acquired. But not me.
You see I have a confession to make. I am a bookshopaholic.
When I was around 8, my grandfather gave me some money to buy a book to read during the long summer holiday. I cradled those coins in my hands as though they were a fragile egg all the way to the local newsagent where there was a small selection of books in a cardboard stand.
I bought myself a paperback of the Magic Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton. I then cradled that carefully in my hands all the way home and could barely wait to get stuck in to the adventure.
That was the first time I remember buying a book with my own money.
I still have that book. It’s one of my most treasured possessions, high on the list of things I would grab before fleeing if my house caught fire in the night and I had time to save just a few things.
That unforgettable trip to the newsagent 40-odd years ago was also the first time I felt the unbeatable high I get from book shopping.
Forget coffee, chocolate or even cake. Nothing gets me higher than a trip to a book shop.
I adore picking up new volumes and flicking through their crisp clean pages, examining dust jackets and cover blurbs. I love weighing up the many options and finally, finally choosing one to take home. I can book browse for hours.
In more recent years I have discovered second hand bookshops. What an adventure they can be. I make grown up ‘play dates’ with friends to go book fossicking. It’s one of my favourite forms of entertainment. So I always feel obliged to buy something to thank the store owner for entertaining me.
Book shopping also provides a form of therapy. When I’m sad I cheer myself up by buying books. When I’m happy I celebrate by buying books. When I reward myself for a hard effort, or some small success you guessed it, I reward myself with books.
That collection of unread books is a record of the emotional roller coaster life can be. That one was when my boss gave me all the mind numbing jobs at work and I nearly quit. Over there is last year’s birthday treat. I got that for actually sticking to a diet beyond a single weekend and losing 5 kilos.
Once I thought I should try to stop. I even promised my partner I wouldn’t buy any more until I read all the books I’ve already got. But that would take at least five years. So I lied.
To cover my tracks I’ve started stashing new purchases under the bed or in the back of cupboards. I destroy receipts and do away with any book shop branded shopping bags that may have snuck into the house. When I do get sprung I claim the book is a birthday present for my father. Then I get Dad to mind it for a while until partner forgets.
Buying books is part of who I am. I reckon It always will be. I don’t really want to stop.
I walked past a bookshop in Perth a couple of years ago. There was a sign out front that said “There is no bookaholics anonymous because no one wants to quit.” Amen to that.
So how to celebrate Love Your Bookshop Day? Fair chance the number of unread books will rise to 133.