As a child (you may be surprised to hear), I was a bit of a boffin, and (you will not be surprised to hear) a bit of a know it all. I blame my mother, with her constant trips to the local library. No sitting around playing video games and scratching my arse whilst my eyes turned square for me. What a lucky child I was. I would ingest books at an alarming rate, furiously regurgitating useless facts and stories. My favourite books, alongside the childhood classics, were inappropriate trashy tomes about master criminals, grisly violent murders and U.F.O.s.
Whilst most little girls dreamt of large fairytale castles, prince charming weddings complete with meringue dress, I was wishing for a huuuuge library stacked from the very bottom to the very top with all these marvelous works. I wanted one of those ladders on wheels which you clipped onto the side of the bookcase on which I could whizz round my well stacked library. The closest thing I have found to this dream is when visiting the folks in Eastbourne. I always pop into this mysterious and crazy bookshop, aptly called, 'Books.' No messing around there.
Without fail I stumble upon something weird and wonderful. My last visit I found the most insane '70s book on customised denim, but that peculiar article deserves a whole post in itself. This time I was enthralled by the numerous books on 'glamour photography,' curious manuals offering advice on shooting scantily clad babes in white t-shirts under waterfalls. I kid you not. They are obviously from a more innocent time where the porn was, well, soft... the warm lighting, the fluffy hair, the doughy boobs. Completely at odds with today's super-bright HD flashes of rigid tits and acylic hair.
|Maybe if this was on the reading list in History of Art classes I would have paid more attention.|
|ALL Penguin classics.|
|Packs a Punch. Whey.|
|I know what's going this years Crimbo card...|