With thirteen cardboard boxes and a Swedish man... I aimed my car north and prayed its French engine would hold together in 23 degrees below freezing temperature. When you work with books, these are things you do sometimes.
It kind of feels good, transporting literature somewhere, despite the acute physical pain when you have to get out of the car into the Arctic weather.
In our sister bookshop in the town further north I loaded and unloaded boxes, discussed upcoming releases with the Swedish sales rep and my colleagues, had lots of coffee, took a good look around the bookshelves, checked FaceBook when there was nothing to do, had lunch in the Indian restaurant next door with my new boss and the sales rep. During the book talks I found myself uncharacteristically drifting off - into pointless daydreams of another life. What is wrong with me? Isn't this the life I should be dreaming of?
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