Nah. I know. But I’m having a Dickens of a day.
We have an “antique” shop in town called Great Expectations and I visited it for the first time in about 4 years this morning.
Jeebuth. What a mess. Replace Antique with JUNK.
But I did find the book above. An old accounts book with beautiful marbling, some pages missing but mostly empty.
I rarely go out and about anymore. It’s so hard to socialise and be what my parents taught me to be. Polite and friendly and interested. Though I can say the words and smile the smile whilst inside is silent and still and a hundred thousand miles away.
It’s quite sad to realise that the beauty of an old work book, the binding, the feel of the paper, the real ink page numbers written by someone long ago gave me more pleasure than any person did.
My family know me. They understand but get extremely frustrated at times like this. When “I” disappear and they are left with an automaton.
My thanks to three Wonder Walls :o)
P.S. I still have nightmares about double entry bookkeeping as taught to me when I was 21 and working in a hotel in Amesbury.
I HATE MATHS!