Left long enough and I’ve found most ambitions wane. The amps in my mind roaring rock star dreams were flicked to standby years ago, and now they are off. But I’ve never quite given up on wanting a library. I’d like the whole shebang: floor-to-ceiling walnut; ladder on a track; the ex libris stamp. I’d like the kids to ask if I’ve read a book and me to portentously tell them everything is alphabetised next door. Having a one-bed flat with the square footage of a cracker is getting in the way of this, but a boy can dream.
A bookshop is built on brand-new copies, but a library is not. A library takes time trawling through junk shops and antique shops, and crucially, proper second-hand bookshops, like those lining the Charing Cross Road and Cecil Court. Like one that’s on Harmood Street, which sits about halfway between the underground stops for Chalk Farm and Camden.
