Got a new job which was nice. It's not bad either, pretty interesting work and my desk overlooks the River Thames (in London). If I crane my neck to the right I can watch the London Eye spin its way merrily through another day in the capital. And as I'm packing up my things to leave I'm greeted with the actual Waterloo sunset, the one the Kinks were always going on about. It's also paying for my amazing adventure around the world in January. So I should be pretty happy.
Alas things are not so smooth. Someone had the genius idea of creating a shelf and filling it full of books that hadn't been sold so that employees could have them instead. It has the intimidating name of 'the Pulp Shelf' and it is the bane of my working life. Don't get me wrong, at first I was over the moon at such a prospect. The people all around me told me of the old classics they had picked up, and I was worryingly excited when I managed to acquire a copy of that essential bedside reading 'The Fabric of the Cosmos' by Brian Greene. (It had a nice vintage cover).
For the last five days however I have dreaded going to the Pulp Shelf. Everytime I head down on the lift I allow myself to dream. For a few seconds there is a tiny glimmer of hope that all the best books haven't already been snatched up, and then, in a horrifying instant, it is shattered in the most humiliating fashion by Fern Britton's smiling face. She looks down at me from her autobiography and she mocks me. Every morning. It's a horrible way to start your day.
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