The Bedside Crow

Winnie the Pooh and the light sprinkling of sarcasm.

Apart from that boxed set over there, do you have a copy of Winnie the Pooh?

It is Sunday afternoon, we have had another busy weekend and the lady who is asking me the question has just spent ten minutes leafing through our selection of graphic novels - Joe Sacco, Watchman, Joe Matt, Alison Bedchell, etc - before alighting on Wall and Piece, the Banksygraph, and then, finally, approaching the counter with an orange notebook with Che Guevara's face on it.

No, I'm sorry, I say, we must have sold out.

Hmmmm, she says, I suppose it's too normal for you, isn't it.

No, no, I say, not at all. I laugh.

She looks at me with a glare, and for a moment I think we are about to begin a long round of is, isn't.

The back of the shop, she says, is really quite gloomy you know, particularly if like me, your eyes are not what they were.

Yes, I say, it's on my list, first thing tomorrow. More light bulbs.

I'm just feeding it back to you, she says, and glares at me again.

Crow on a post.

Thanks Simon.

Waterstone's are having a happy reading day tomorrow!

My customer stands before me at the till with a grim face.

And what, might I ask, are you doing?

I shrug. Everyday is a happy reading day, here, I say.

Exactly. Exactly nothing. Exactly, we lose out again! he says, and then asks me as an afterthought, if we have any novels featuring an Eskimo detective.

Throw me out if I'm here too long.

Our customer goes off to browse the Crime section, adding, I'm murder in a bookshop, me.

Five minutes later his mobile phone rings.

Bugger, he says. Work have noticed I'm missing.

He comes up to the counter with 3 books.

I only came out to get some superglue, he says. It's the music gave me away. You should turn the bloody music down. They don't play Joni friggin Mitchell in the hardware store.

and now I feel sick.

Perk of the job.

Um, after our excellent Mousehunter morning on Saturday with Alex, there would appear to be one or two white chocolate mice going spare.

It's ridiculous! You have this great table of literature, and right in the middle of it you have this twat!

Our customer says, holding up a copy of the Penguin Celebration edition of World According to Clarkson.

We currently have 26 different titles in the series, with books by Malcolm Gladwell, Ryszard Kapuscinski, Claire Tomalin and Paul Theroux among others, and yes, Jeremy Clarkson. And we are selling them for £3.99 a pop. Or 3 for £10.00. Next stop a 3 for 2 table and a big gold sign.

Actually Top Gear - possibly because he recently played James May in school assembly - is fast becoming Fred's favourite program. So much so, that on Sunday night the whole family gathered round our 12 inch plasma screen to watch it. And we all agreed it was the funniest thing we had seen in ages. Especially the Bill Oddie mask.

The Transmitter

Is a new magazine from up here on the hill, produced by Andy and Nick from Smash Bang Wallop with a bit of help, from, among others, Justine and I. In fact, it launches Justine's new career as a food columnist, so look out A A Gill and be very afraid Jay Rayner.

In a forthcoming issue I'm thinking of writing about books that are set in Crystal Palace and the surrounding south London area. I can think of quite a few already, but any suggestions would be more than welcome, and if I get enough I might even start a separate page either on the blog, or the website, listing them all.

You can pick up a copy of The Transmitter from the shop, or if you live locally, you are very likely to get one through your door. We hope you like it.

Also, Justine does Neil.

In which two conversations about the work of Chris Petit bookend the day.

In the morning Dave says, That film Radio On. What a terrible, dreadful film that was.

Sting, I say.

I mean, Dave says, it wasn't Kings of the Road, was it.

No, I say, it wasn't.

It wanted to be Kings of the Road, Dave says, but it was just rubbish.

I saw it when it first came out, I say.

So did I, Dave says, and I wish I hadn't.

Later, an Italian lady asks me if we have any books by Chris Petit.

I'm sorry, I say, we haven't at the moment.

I love Robinson, she says. That book is amazing. It is like a drug! It made me do fantastic things! I couldn't put it down. I even read it sitting on the toilet.

Outside, a man on a motorbike roars past.

What else has he written? she asks.

His last book is a thriller, I say, called, The Passenger. The publicity material describes it as a novel of imaginative daring and describes Chris Petit as the thinking man's Andy McNab.

I must have a copy, she says. Please order one for me.

I will, I say.

Most mornings, two fat Estate Agents walk past the shop carrying coffee and buns.

I set my watch by them.

Today they look perturbed.

(And thinner.)