Lest the above title appear extraneous, let me explain. Not only did I set out to buy a book today and not do so, but the circumstances in which this occurred caused me acute discomfort and embarrassment.
This evening I went late-night shopping, as is my wont of a Thursday. In particular I was looking for a new pair of shoes, but that's by-the-by. When I reached the shopping centre I decided to pop over to the secondhand bookshop and pick up a cheap, fun paperback to read whilst eating my planned yiros.
It was not to be. In the bookshop the minutes lengthened to quarter-hours as I, spoilt for choice, agonised over my decision. After half an hour I had an epiphany of sorts, and I looked at my behaviour through the cold, sterile eye of reason. Here I was, a man of not inconsiderable means, agonising between Harry Harrison's "Montezuma's Revenge" and a box set of 4 of Richard Gordon's "Doctor" books. Both of these items were retailing for the princely sum of 50 cents.
I felt disgusted at my own inanity. I put both books down and left the shop, returning instead to the car where I retrieved my copy of Clive Cussler's "Black Wind", which I read over dinner instead. My chagrin pervaded the rest of the evening and may have influenced my subsequent decision to buy a pair of purple/white gingham Dunlop Volleys.
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