I think it is safe for me to say I don’t have enough books. I have a LOT of books, but I don’t have anywhere near enough of them. I have at least eight on my Yuletide gift list and am certain to see some more very soon.
Entering a book shop is like a supermodel walking into Prada, I just can’t help myself. Books are my Luis Vuitton handbag or my Jimmy Choo sandals; they are my Yves Saint Laurent scarf or my Stella McCartney dress.
Floor to ceiling wooden shelves call to me as I walk past, like a wispy frock on the catwalk in Paris or Milan would to a prospective buyer. I see plush slip covers and gold leaf embossed sleeves, or heavenly artwork and divine fonts to die for. I have to stop myself charging to the cash desk with armfuls of aromatic, papery goodness as my purse fears for its safety.
It’s an addiction, it’s true, but one that can be shared in polite society without rebuke or suggestions to seek the latest cure. Besides, I’m in denial. I want to ‘want’ books...so there.