Today in the bookshop where now I work on Saturdays there were few buyers but lots of browsers, plus a third category of people who thought I was an information bureau: the gaggle of teenage boys who were looking for the cinema up the road; the Danish tourist who couldn't find the travel agent; the woman who wanted to know when the woman in the shop next door was opening up for her Easter sale.
I sent a couple looking for specialist books on contemporary Australian furniture-making down to the Experimental Art Foundation, and a man who rang looking for books on Stanley Spencer up to Carrick Hill, where they've got at least one Spencer hung. I like working in the bookshop, it makes me feel competent. I've learned a few things already, like never to trust anyone in a baseball cap, especially if he has it on the right way around. (If he is a she, call the police. Not difficult, as they're only a few doors down; I could step outside and shout.)
The shop is in Hindley Street, which is, erm, colourful, and last week I had to go to the front door and give a drug-crazed busker who was camped on the doorstep and competing with my own choice of ambient music -- Bach cellos -- a choice: would he please either move a few doors down or let me tune his guitar properly. He moved.
Sufficiently knackered by the time I shut up shop this afternoon to be grateful for a nice night in, I settled down with some buttered noodles to RocKwiz which I have decided is one of the kewlest shows on TV. I was listening to Martha Wainwright's mum and auntie before young Martha was born (just), so it was such a treat to see and hear her being truly stunning live on the teeve -- that show is very unforgiving, with weaknesses exposed for all to see, but Wainwright just ate it up, a big sexy girl in a faux-retro dress, crooning impromptu and a capella into the mic in a way that would have made her mommy and her daddy and her big brother Rufus proud.
And then when I went outside late tonight on the romantic errand of taking the pre-loved cat litter out to the bin, the Easter moon was so full and bright and the sky so clear that the shadow I threw on the pavers was sharp-cut enough for me to check out the silhouette of my haircut.
Haircut, six out of ten. Martha, ten. Moonshine, eleven.