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What do you do with the piles of books that you've read and no longer want cluttering up your shelves? We usually wait until either the church Summer Fair or Christmas Fair and then haul them down to the bookstall. A colleague recently told me about Book Crossing. This is a website where you register a books you no longer want, are given a unique reference number which you write on a label in the book with an explanatory note, then release the book into the wild.
After years of reading John LeCarre novels this appealed to the clandestine in me: I loved the idea of surreptitiously leaving a book on a park bench or on a bus seat, hoping that no one will chase after you to return it.
Once you have released a book you hope that the finder will leave a comment on the website telling you where they found it and what they thought of it, before releasing it in a similar manner themselves.
I have released two books, both were books I loved - in fact one I liked so much that I didn't want to get rid of it, it was only by good luck that, ironically, I spotted The God of Small Things on sale for thirty pence at the Oldham Parish Church Coffee Morning Bookstall the other week when I was passing after buying fish on the market.
I released a Patrick O'Brien novel on a bench overlooking Salford Quays one lunchtime, I wanted to leave it somewhere fitting and this was the nearest I could get to the sea. The other I left folded in a copy of the Metro on a tram at Trafford Bar tram station.
So far, no one has 'fessed up to retrieving these books but at least I didn't return days later to find one damp and curled on the bench and the other blowing in pieces around the tram lines!
I think this is a fabulous idea and, as the year progresses, I hope to carry out further, more imaginative, deposits.
Flicking through the pages of my notebook I came across this observation from a few weeks ago. From the tram window I saw a man walking across Piccadilly Gardens. What caught my eye were the two angry weals running diagonally across his face from chin to ear, as though he'd been whipped with a cane or stick. His face itself was pockmarked and ruddy, his eyes bleary; and his stumbling gait made me think he was probably one of Manchester's homeless winos. His crumpled clothing, that he had probably slept in and/or fallen over in, bore out the overall appearance; but in each hand he was carrying a pristine white carrier bag, each bearing the smart emblem of the Royal Marines. The contrast could not have been starker and I suddenly felt very sad staring at this shambolic figure. Had he picked up his bags and contents in HM Forces' career office; perhaps determined, in his disordered state, to make a fresh start? I wondered whether the recruitment officers had been kind to him or whether they had scoffed and took the piss after encouraging him to get fit and join up before sending him on his way.
I was filled with a sense of this man's vulnerability: who had whipped him across the face? As he shambled across the square I could see swaggering chavs pointing him out and I was reminded of a wounded antelope being circled by lions waiting for the moment when one of them went in for the kill.
The tram soon passed and the scene went, as they all do. I wondered what my response should be to what I had seen and how it had made me feel. Should I shrug, tell myself to get over it, with a comment that life is tough? Perhaps it might prompt me to make a donation to a homelessness charity this Christmas. Or perhaps I'll forget, as I get carried away with the seasonal preparations, only to come back to my notes, or this post in the new year and feel a moment's guilt - which, like the tram, will soon pass.
The reaction to my post about the removal of unwanted ear hair is instructive, and has provided me with an interesting insight into friends, colleagues and fellow bloggers. Firstly though, I must make a correction: it has been sniffily pointed out that 'depillation' has only one 'l'. Now, I could have skulked back to the post and sneakily edited away the error but it would have seemed at odds with my boldness in attempting to vanquish my unwanted aural fauna - so, let it stand I say.
Other comments have aligned themselves broadly into a number of camps: there has been the Gok Wan camp - and I do mean camp - who champion the eau naturale stance - let it flourish they say; I remain unconvinced. Mrs C's comment was pretty much what I would have expected - and others who know me well have reacted in similar vein - they have listened to, or read the tale, and then shook there heads with a bemused, unsurprised and resigned look on their faces that said: it could have been worse. And finally the pragmatists with the view championed by my son Tom who listened with interest, examined my singed ear and was impressed by the falling skin flakes but then simply asked me: if I wanted my ear hair removing a la Turkish barber why did I not simply go to Google and find one.
Finally, whilst we are talking of camp, I caught a tram across town the other day; there was disruption to the Metrolink and I passed the time of day with a chap in my carriage comparing the quality of public transport in Manchester with other parts of the UK and Europe. He was clearly well educated and well travelled, he wore an expensive business suit and carried a top quality leather brief case. The conversation was unremarkable until his parting shot as he left the tram at Shude Hill; darting through the closing doors he said:
"I don't know, I should have stayed in bloody Torquay giving blow jobs to sailors on the beach, ta ta."
and, with that, he was gone and I was left open mouthed on my way to Victoria Station.
What's the phrase? - nowt as queer as folk, that's it.
