In the pre-snow days of London (can we remember them, can we?) I used to enjoy picking up my LondonLite and reading about people I didn’t care about doing things in places I would never go as it passed the time of a dreary commute home.
And when the LondonLite closed, along with it’s fellow freesheet of dross thelondonpaper, I was a bit sad for a while. I started playing Vortex on my ipod. As in the shit game. So, sad in the emotional, physical, and cultural senses.
But after a while, the repetitive strain injury of Vortex coupled with the purchase of a new book led me to rediscover literature.
Hello books. Remember when we were friends? All those holidays together and that three-year relationship at university? But we moved on didn’t we, me and you? We grew apart. I wanted the fast-paced London life, you wanted passive laid-back contentment.
But like an unhappy overweight middle-aged wife searching for her first love on Friends United, I have found books again. For want of any thing better to do. Sorry, it’s a backhanded compliment, but that’s the way it falls.
And then yesterday, I got on the tube, and I saw something strange. In the cramped seats and teetering like monkeys off the overhead bars were people reading books, too. We all had them. Well most of us. Big ones, small ones, hard ones, soft ones… we love them however they come. (sexualising books, really? It’s all in your head)
In the warm pre-snow days of London (can we remember them, can we?) every person would carry paper filled with trash. And now? Well London is educating itself. With books.
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