I’m in a bookstore that’s called Nomad’s. Is that who it attracts? It’s my favourite because it’s been with me since the very beginning. Or I’ve been with it. Yes, I’ve been with it. It’s on a corner of a busy Fulham road.
It’s the type of bookstore, where you know they know what they’re talking about. It’s that kind of bookstore, where the staff are the bookish type, heads down inside a page of inked on words when there’s a lull in customers to serve. Hand written notes poke from books on dark wooded shelves, recommending this, commending that. It’s personal, and not much is personal nowadays. The windows are decorated in books not to sell to the masses but to show you the art of writing. ‘Come explore for yourself’, they cry.
The floors of Nomad’s creak and groan and I sink further and further into its heart. There’s a cafe inside with coffee to burn my tongue and books to hem me in; right, left, front, behind. The books that one day (maybe one day) I’d like to write. I breath in the cardboard smell – it’s books alive for you.