I was talking to a friend the other day, discussing my new bookshelves. There is a fundamental problem with these bookshelves you see, they are from IKEA and if you are a friend of mine, or even an enemy of mine, you will know how disgusted I feel for having bent to the Law of The Skint, for having caved in and bought the cheapest of the cheapo, for having shifted my weight the wrong side of the aesthetic fence.
I had no choice my friend (or my enemy), for I had books covering every flat surface of my small abode, and that included floors. I have spent the weekend re-arranging everything and taking forgotten texts down from the loft and onto the shelves and, finally, I feel like I’ve moved in, almost seven years after having done so. I’ve got all my books (and Rick’s books) at arm’s length (especially Rick’s books I should say) and it feels great.
And IKEA or other, I had underestimated the Power of Book Order, which is a bit peculiar considering I am a Virgo and like any good Virgo (or is it Virgoan? I don’t know, but I surely prefer the former) I am clean and tidy and often go completely ape when my stuff has been moved. Now I am sitting in bed, looking at one of the new bookcases, a little white one at my feet, and I am mesmerised by the beautiful spines, by the typefaces, by the colours, by the sizes, able as I am, for the first time since I bought all of these books, to really see them and to really look at them. I have strung up fairy lights on top of them and for the first time they make me feel all serene as opposed to narky for having yet again stubbed my toe on them. Gosh, I feel happy. I never thought that serene and happy and IKEA could go together but I guess they do.