Being an editor is a full-time job, even at the Daily Moaner. But even for a super-hero such as myself, there are essential domestic tasks to be completed. One such occurred yesterday.
I should explain that, though extraordinarily gifted in many directions at once, I do have a fault or two. One is that I need a responsible adult whenever I go shopping, to prevent me buying books. I readily confess this. Where other people — say — mass murderers, have bits of bodies lying around the place, and dismembered limbs, I have books. I am a serial book-buyer .
But where your average neighbourhood mass murderer can dispose of unwanted, surplus-to-requirements body parts — down the drain possibly, or in black plastic bags (such a cliché !) one cannot do the same with books. Why? If you have to ask, you will never understand.
Obviously they can never be thrown away, or even given away, because books are personal friends. They are bosom pals who will amuse and inform and educate, and who are pleasing to the eye. I care nothing that they are gathering dust — that is what books are for .
A good book will never nag remind you constantly that the fence needs painting. It will not fan the air vigorously when you fart. It will not tell you that your drink, food, cigarettes etc are shortening your life, and this must be true because it says so in this magazine. It will not whine to be taken out at night to see a movie, or in the afternoon to do its business.
The book is man’s best friend, with the dog a distant second despite its big brown soulful eyes, begging to be taken to the corner for the third time today. And in the best friend race, women don’t even come close. Though I will admit they are more cuddly.
It is incredible to think that on this planet there are people who say they could not read a book more than once! Which is like saying you couldn’t possibly go out with the same person twice. These people are visually promiscuous.
It has been pointed out that I will not have enough time to read all my books’ lovely pages before I die. I dispute this . I may live another twenty, thirty, forty years. Or I may decide not to die at all . Meanwhile, my friends stand ready, silently, waiting for their moment to come.
Anyway… the bookcase in the bedroom had to be moved into temporary premises (the bathroom) while waiting for the new book shelves to be built. This simple master-stroke will allow room for even more books, whilst also allowing me a little more freedom of movement.
I constructed a task-sheet, breaking the job down to sub-tasks. The whole operation would take only twenty minutes, with an added bonus — I could watch “Top Gear ” while I worked. Piece of cake. Un morceau de gateau. Un pièce de pisse .
Shift books from bookcase onto bed:
On paper, this task was allotted five minutes, as the bookcase in question lives at the foot of the bed. However, the estimate hadn’t allowed for dipping and delving time, as long-forgotten friends rose to the surface.
“A Manual of Fieldcraft for Snipers “. A book of professional interest during a previous life in the Forces. But why did I own a copy of “The Art of Bullfighting “, a detestable so-called “sport “? And why had I bought several books on cartooning, when I have zero talent even for scribbling? And what strange quirk had led me to purchase “How to Hold a Crocodile “, when I have very little intention of ever doing this?
The five minutes stretched first to an hour and ultimately to three, as the re-run of “Top Gear” was also demanding my attention. Eventually, though, the bookcase was emptied and there was no room to lie on the bed.
Shift bookcase into bathroom:
A simple job for two strong men, but fairly arduous for one incompetent weakling. Alternately pushing and pulling, the bookcase condescended to shift, pausing only twice to crush my big toe. It was at this phase of the operation that I exhausted my comprehensive knowledge of forbidden words in eleven languages. And it was only after that , that I realised all the windows were open.
Shift books from bed to bathroom:
The task-sheet estimated ten minutes for this portion of the job so, “Top Gear ” having ended, I set to with a will. It was at this point that I discovered a first edition of Stephen Leacock’s “The Hohenzollerns in America ” (Bodley head, 8vo, uncut, no jckt,slightly foxed ). Thirty-seven minutes later, I was back on the job.
But then I ran into my most precious book — Lajos Egri’s “The Art of Dramatic Writing “, which I can confess, now that the Statute of Limitations has run out, that I stole from a public library back in the eighties. Dipping into this caused a four-hour detour to my Unfinished Plays file, and took until almost midnight.
Exhausted, I retired to bed clutching “The Mystery of William Shakespeare ” by Charlton Ogburn, and no less than eleven books by Thorne Smith (one of America’s greatest and most neglected novelists) including “The Night Life of the Gods “.
Tomorrow the new book-shelves will be installed, and I can begin transferring all my friends to their new permanent home, caressing each one individually as I go. Shouldn’t take long. I have constructed another task sheet, breaking it down.
It should only take twenty minutes.
