Harry Potter came home to find Ginny crying in the lounge.
“Ginny,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
Ginny says nothing and hands him a book. Harry recognises it and panics.
“Where..where did you find this?”
“You know where I found it,” Ginny says. “Vogue, March 2005. Vanity Fair, October 2006. Marie Claire, January 2007. And all the others. I didn’t even know she was in so many.”
“She’s a friend. You know this. Hermione and I go way back. We stopped Voldemort together.”
“So you just keep all her photoshoots for posterity? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Yes, there’s nothi…”
“Oh, shut up. I’m not stupid. The papers always mention it. They always wanted you two to get together. Not you and some Weasley, it never made sense to them. Not to mention what everyone online says.”
Hello all. If you like what I used to do for Waterstones Oxford Street on Twitter then you might get be glad to hear I’ve written a book. You might not, that’s okay. I’m not going to tell you how to feel.
It's a joke astrology book but it's mostly just an excuse for me to write lots of jokes and stories. Some of them are about books, some of them aren’t. Most of them are funny, I hope.
This is taken from my book, The Horrorscopes Astrological Almanac. Here it is on Amazon. Here it is on Waterstones.
--
The first time you play Monopoly will be in the first week of January as part of a monthly board game night at a local bookshop. You will play with your partner, your best friend and their partner. After three trips around the board you will have lost or spent all of your money. You continue to drink while they play, you get too drunk and start to call them all ‘capitalist pigs.’ Everyone knows you don’t mean it but the insults bring an unfortunate edge to the atmosphere. You and your partner go home early, the next day you apologise for being so drunk. They say it’s ok, you want to believe them.
The first week of February sees you playing Monopoly with the same people at the same night. This time you make it around the board four times before being bankrupted, this time by your best friend’s partner. You laugh it off, not wanting to cause the same scene as in January but your previous actions quickly create a nervous atmosphere. You drink as they play and, although you don’t go to the same lengths as last time, a few unnecessary ‘quips’ bring down the tone of the evening. You and your partner go home early, the next day you apologise for being so drunk. They say it’s ok, you want to believe them.
March. The monthly board game night. Your partner asks if you’re sure you want to go, wouldn’t you rather sit in and watch a few episodes of The Wire instead? You say that it’s fine, that it’s all under control. That you won’t let the evening be ruined just because you lost at Monopoly. They reluctantly agree. Your best friend, who you haven’t spoken to since last month, welcomes you warmly. They kiss your partner on the cheek. Did that kiss go on a bit too long? Is that level of eye contact indicative of something else? You push it to the back of your mind. You’re being ridiculous. You play Monopoly. This time, thanks to some particularly shrewd and clever play by your best friend, you’re bankrupt before you can even pass ‘Go’ for a third time. The evening pans out as before. They play, you drink. Nobody says anything that isn’t necessary for the game. You go home early, your partner stays behind. They arrive home late and don’t say a word as they get into bed.
In April you decide to invite your best friend and his partner over for dinner and, to put it to rest once and for all, another game of Monopoly. The dinner goes well, the evening becomes relaxed and happy. Nobody even thinks twice when you bring out the game and start to set it up as your partner cleans the table. Your friend helps as you arrange the pieces before offering to go through and give a hand doing the dishes. Once the board is ready you go through to the kitchen to tell the others only to find your partner and your friend kissing in the kitchen. They leap back suddenly, they apologise, they try to explain. You cannot think. You leave the house and go to stay with your parents.
May. You have successfully destroyed the Parker Brothers factory and are now sitting in a tree outside your once friend’s house. Your dog is barking. Your top hat is tattered and worn. You do not have a car. Your now ex is in the house. Your friend’s partner is also there. From your vantage point you can see that they’re playing Happy Families. You barge in and demand to play. Terrified, they deal the cards and, until the sirens come, you win hand after hand after hand after hand after hand.
As I’ve mentioned before, the relationship between my father and I remains sparse to this very day. We rarely communicate and if we do it hardly goes beyond the standard nod of recognition we allow ourselves should we pass in the hallway. Luckily, since moving out this hasn’t happened at all but, due to my striking resemblance to him, I occasionally pass the mirror in my room and nod at myself to relive the old times. Having had no father figure for the last twenty years I have had nobody to discuss the matters of my life and consequently I’ve been making all the mistakes that he once made. Last week this particular point came to a climax when I married my mother and had three children. The third child, my only son, bears a striking resemblance to myself and we’ve already started nodding at each other should we pass in the hallway. I do not know what became of my father.
That all happened about twenty years ago and there’s been little of note since. My son has grown up and I’ve noticed recently that he’s been making passes at my wife. It’s disgusting really; she’s old enough to be his grandmother. To make it worse, she’s been catching them and throwing them back in his direction. It’s only a matter of time before I’m kicked out.
I write this paragraph two days after the one above and the inevitable has happened. My bags are packed with the necessary clothes and nutrients and I’m ready to go out into the world. I haven’t left this house for three years because I’ve been keeping an eye on him, especially when we passed in the hallway, but I’ve said enough of that already.
I left the house two days ago. I can’t remember where I’ve been sleeping. Everybody looks very familiar. On the first day outside the house I saw a man staring at his reflection in a shop window and nodding constantly. Yesterday I saw his body being taken away. Someone was watching it being removed. I think I saw my father in the park.
It was my father; we sat down on a bench and talked about old times. We remembered my mother and the things she used to say that made us laugh. It’s incredible how when I was young I was doing similar things to what my own son did at the same age. I saw another body being taken away today and mentioned this to my father who had noticed the same thing. The last I saw he was going to take a closer look. I think I saw my son just outside the park.
It was my son. We sat down on a bench and talked about old times. We remembered my wife and the things she used to say that made us laugh. It turns out that he’s had a son who seems much like him when he was young. He mentioned that he saw a body being taken away which I had also seen. I assume it’s my father. I might go and pay my respects.
I’m standing outside the shop now. I saw my father’s body being taken away about twenty minutes ago and began to follow when something caught my eye. It was my father so I nodded in recognition. He responded simultaneously. I nodded again. So did he. I am still nodding.
One of the problems of working in a bookshop is that a once enjoyable Sunday afternoon of sorting out my personal bookcase now just feels like a day at work. As much as I like books, it’s nice to have two days a week where I don’t have to constantly rearrange them. Back then, however, in the dark days before the bookshop, I would spend hours wondering where the books should live.
I’ve spent most of my life arguing with people that ‘the floor’ is a valid storage space. Especially when it comes to books and, now that everyone I know lives in small London flats, people are finally conceding my point. It’s strange to me that some people have enough space in their homes for more than one small bookcase. One of my biggest problem is deciding which books get to go on the actual shelves.
There are perks of being on the bookshelf. Alphabetical and genre order being the main one. Is there any other way to arrange your shelves? I’ve heard about people who arrange their books by colour. These people are clearly ill and need help. No, my books sit there, enthralled to the alphabet, easily found and noticed. Fiction first, then short story collections, biographies, sport and more crossword books than I’d care to admit. Not like those on the floor, scattered and unread, the escalator Metros of my room.
Next to the bed, the ‘to read’ pile. Fifty books strong and regularly growing in number. I’m concerned that one day I’ll awake and find them covering my bed waking me with cries of, ‘read us. You promised to read us.’ There’s no order, a mix of non-fiction and fiction. An orgy of styles and ideas all vying for my attention. I go to sleep hoping that somehow they’ll whisper to me in my sleep. That I’ll wake up as well-read as I like to pretend I am.
By the computer desk, on the floor, the ‘have read’ pile. The books that simply weren’t good enough to make it onto the bookshelf. Cast aside, ignored. They spend their days wondering what they did to deserve such abandonment. ‘You were good books,’ I say. ‘But you are no Borges.’ At least, I tell them, they aren’t in the wardrobe.
The poor wardrobe books. Schroedinger’s books. Revealed only to ‘show off’ the extent of my collection whenever I think it may impress a woman who knows that John Waters quote. But I don’t let them get too close in case they realise that, ‘really, is that the time? I’ve got to be up early tomorrow. I think I’ll catch the last bus.’ Like going home with someone and finding out they’ve got an extensive collection of Enya records.
There’s an honesty needed with a good book collection. The ability to arrange your books for yourself rather than for the eyes of an ideal stranger. I used to arrange my books in case the Billy Liar version of Julie Christie came round. We could have been so happy together. Her with her looks and sense of adventure and me showing off that I’d read some books by Franz Kafka. One day…
But nowadays I don’t bother organising for people I’ve made up or thought about too much as a teenager. A bookshelf is a personal thing and it must reflect the mind and tastes of the person it belongs to. Especially because, if they arrange them by colour, you’ll know to get out. Get out fast before it’s too late.
The question is, Tumblr, how do you arrange your bookhelves? Remember that any answer beyond 'alphabetical by author' is almost certainly wrong.
This originally appeared on the Windmill Books blog, which can be found here.
Auto-Tuned Opening Lines - The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury
More than a few of the booksellers in our store are admirers of Ray Bradbury's books and we were very sad to hear of his death. We recorded this song about a month ago but didn't want to put it up as last week as, quite frankly, we think it might have seemed opportunistic. So, here, in our own way of tribute to one of the best modern writers there's been, is the auto-tuned Illustrated Man.
Lyrics:
It was a warm afternoon in early September
when I first met the Illustrated Man.
Walking along an asphalt road,
I was on the final leg of a two weeks' walking tour of Wisconsin.
Late in the afternoon I stopped, ate some pork, beans, and a doughnut,
and was preparing to stretch out and read
when the Illustrated Man walked over the hill
and stood for a moment against the sky.
I didn't know he was illustrated then.
I only know that he was tall, once well muscled,
but now, for some reason, going to fat.
I recall that his arms were long, and the hands thick,
but that his face was like a child's, set upon a massive body.
He seemed only to sense my presence,
--
You too can Auto-Tune your life using the ace Songify app (here) created by The Gregory Brothers (here).
Six Books About You - Stories Written in the Second-person
You finish yet another book where a first-person narrator has told you all about their adventures or a nameless god has just finished a story about characters who you suspect don't really exist. 'I think, therefore I am,' you think (therefore you are). You want a book about a character you know is real. Let's face it, you want a book about you. You don't want to be sitting on the bus to work reading about other people, you want to be reading about nobody but yourself. So, here you are, six books about you. You raging ego-maniac.
(You can click on the title or cover of each book and find yourself on the corresponding page at waterstones.com)
Italo Calvino - If on a Winter's Night a Traveller
You enter a bookshop to buy Italo Calvino's new novel If on a Winter's Night a Traveller. You take it home, get comfortable and start reading but, after the first chapter, you find that the rest of the book isn't there. You take it back to the bookshop and the staff tell you that there's been a printing error. They give you the book you've been reading but it turns out there's a printing error as well. You end up starting but never finishing 11 novels, going to ridiculous and hilarious lengths just to find the rest of a book. An amazing novel that, in less skilled hands, could have been a complete mess.
Jay McInerney - Bright Lights, Big City
You are in 1980s New York. Your wife has just left you for a photographer she met on a fashion shoot. You work as a fact checker for a magazine during the day and spend the nights going to parties, taking drugs and talking to women you care nothing for. You miss your now ex-partner and your life is getting more and more out of control. This novel is probably one you've heard of. This and the Italo Calvino book are easily the most famous novels written about you.
Charles Stross - Halting State
You are one of three people, Sue, Elaine or Jack. All of you are investigating a robbery into a virtual bank in an MMORPG. As you get deeper into the case you start to find that there are much wider implications that could effect the Real World. You live in an excellently realised depiction of Scotland in 2018 and are surrounded by wonderfully thought out possibilities with regards to future technology. An excellent techie thriller.
Georges Perec - A Man Asleep
You've decided that life isn't for you. You stop going to your classes and give up on seeing your friends. You walk the streets at night so you don't have to see anybody. You budget efficiently to stop you having to work and become more and more antisocial. Some people say you're the definition of a depressive state but your route into inaction requires far more effort than any depressive would be willing to put into it. Yours is probably my personal favourite story on this list.
Carlos Fuentes - Aura
Before the sad and recent death of Carlos Fuentes, he wrote this novel about you, a young historian, answering an ad in the newspaper. You're hired to write the memoirs of an 109-year old woman who is cared for by her beautiful niece, Aura. You promptly fall in love with Aura and find yourself locked in the house with the two women. It's at this point that things start to get weird. Like David Lynch with a better and more varied imagination. Fuentes is an author who, if you aren't already, you should become more familiar with.
David Eagleman - Sum
You are in the afterlife reliving all your experiences in one go. You spend six days clipping your nails, two-hundred days in the shower, seven months having sex.
You are in the afterlife discovering that your creator is a small, seemingly unintelligent species who built you as a super-computer to answer their questions about life. You have no answer but can't explain this to them.
You are in the afterlife and find that God exists. A wonderful being who welcomes all. You are handed the Book of Truth which answers all the questions you held about life when you were still living. But those who held religious beliefs, despite being presented with the truth, cannot forget what they believed on Earth. Despite offering everything, you see that God remains lonely and separated from mankind.
There are many more of your afterlives in Sum. These are only a few. It is absolutely brilliant.
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