A Book at Bedtime
A mad dash into Glasgow city centre tonight. I offered to buy Mrs Z. the big course book she needs for her studies and, knowing I'd never get around to it during the week, I decided to visit one of the big late-night book stores in town. The Zedettes offered to keep me company on condition they got to choose a book from the children鈥檚 section. I agreed, but reminded them of the New Rule. I invented this a couple of weeks ago. If they choose a book from an author they already know then they pay for it themselves out of their pocket-money, stocks and shares or other sources of revenue they have squirreled away in the bedrooms. If, however, they take a risk and try something new then I fork out. This seems to be working and means they're not adding to the existing collection of stories.
To be fair, they have worked their way through dozens of different authors over the years. is the obvious favourite and seems to have stood the test of time. I didn't have much luck persuading them to read my own collection of books. Buckeridge's most famous comic creation was Jennings who, with his friend Derbyshire had all sorts of boarding school adventures. I tell you, those stories kept me sane. How I longed to escape my comprehensive school in Easterhouse and enroll at Linbury Court Preparatory School. I imagined the fun of life in the dormitory, of walks to the village for tea and buns and all manner of hilarious misunderstandings.
So the Zedettes chose two books - an author they hadn't tried before. I won鈥檛 tell you how much Mrs. Z's computer book cost me. It had no price tag, just a little sticker with a picture of an arm and a leg. As we made our way out of the shop I noticed shelf after shelf stuffed with books about Glasgow's criminal underworld. Another rack contained books about Bird Flu.
What a cheery world we live in. If only we could escape into the land of make-believe that we read about in books. Fancy a midnight feast anyone?
