Lost in a good bookshop

In a postscript to my Evil Capitalism, er, post, below, I think I'll talk about independent bookshops.

Sigh. Honestly now, aren't those two words by themselves enough to give you a warm glowy feeling? Bookshops. Independent. The way they should be. With lots of good books, a sense of personality, and not a Starbucks (or Seattle Coffee Company) in sight. (Not that I'm opposed to combining coffee with books. In fact I think a nice coffee-cum-bookshop is one of the nicest things in the world*. But 'nice' is the operative word, and at Starbucks, does not apply.)

It's great to have lots of books available, really it is. It's great that enough Englishers read books, and read enough books, to ensure a vast number of bookshops on every high street. And from a purely consumerist point of view, it's great to have such competition that you hardly ever have to pay full price for anything remotely popular (what with all the special discounts and 3-for-2 paperbacks). From the author's point of view, however, I understand there are serious problems with this situation. And obviously the same applies to independent booksellers. And there's something distressing about marketing books as something close to disposables. And, well, you may have noticed, below, that I'm not all that keen on a purely consumerist perspective, anyhoo.

So I've made it a rule to only buy books (almost always in hardcover; I'm snobby that way) from nice shops. Because they deserve it. Luckily I'm spoilt; not only is Bloomsbury crammed with gorgeous secondhand and bargain bookstores (but independent bargains, which is allowed), I can also take a very short bus ride to Foyles or - pinnacle of bookish delight - Daunt. My oh my. How I love Daunt. Still, Foyles has those discounts (hard to resist really), and often, signed copies. So Foyles gets a visit or two also. It's still not Daunt, though.

And by the by, I was in Daunt last night, and for the First Time Ever! managed to leave without buying anything. Be proud. Be very proud.

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*And like most other bibliophiles, my secret ambition is to earn a living from running the Perfect Bookshop - with squashy leather couches, warm wooden shelves, home-made cakes and, in my case, luxury yarns in the corner. It could work, right? I call it Cocoon.