Regrets, I've had a few...

But none greater than not buying more bookshelves when I moved into this flat, unless I count buying a flat so near the top of the property boom that it will be years before I can afford to sell it. Teetering on negative equity however is only a problem in so much as it means I can't afford to live in a bigger house (with more bookshelf space) in a part of the country with a wider range of employment options or better scenery. On the whole I really like my flat, the mortgage is basically affordable and I've been happy here. No the big problem is a lack of bookshelves.

When I got the (perfect in just about every way) bookshelves I had nine years less books to home so it looked like they had plenty of space on them, and I wanted wall space for pictures too. They came from IKEA (who damn it all stopped selling them not long after) they are far bigger than any other flat pack bookshelves I've found since, pleasingly deep, have an inoffensive plainness about them, are sufficiently sturdy to stand up despite my questionable diy skills and the considerable weight placed on them (not so my billy bookcase which is wedged into a corner and balanced on some cardboard), and were wonderfully cheap. They are also full and overflowing so I can no longer find things which annoys me and it's hopeless to try and impose any sort of order which also annoys me.

I'm not one of those people who minds having a 1000 books or so that are unread, I rest easy at night knowing that however poor the future leaves me (though I'd rather it didn't) I'll never be short of something to read. I adore books as objects and for the memories they hold quite apart from the entertainment their contents offer. I hate getting rid of books. Partly this is because although I could spend the afternoon weeding out things I don't think I'll ever read again, and in a few cases just never read, and in the process probably clear out a second hand bookshops worth of stuff who's to say I won't want it again one day. It's also because I spent time (and money) on choosing to bring these things into my home because I do want to keep them.

Never the less I've had a root round and cleared out about 2 foot of redundant books, mostly reference works and mostly because I've got more up to date versions. It makes very little difference to the overall problem and I'm left feeling more than a little sad that the Oxford companion to Wine that saw me through all my WSET exams is going but what do you do? I'm not going to stop getting books unless people stop publishing books I'm likely to want, the idea of living in a home without them appals me, but the increasing disorder makes me crazy.

Other peoples books

I suspect my father won't really appreciate this post (and perhaps I should have asked if he would mind) because he'll think I've been rummaging and if he can't find something he wants I'll be blamed for moving things around and hiding them (I swear everything went back exactly where it was dad...) but this is a lightning tour around some of my father and stepmothers books.

Other people's books are fascinating (and quite revealing) in this house it was my stepmother and sister who were the readers, my sister has moved out now but a few books I know I've passed on to her over the years pepper the shelves so we've both contributed to their unique character. I've never lived in a house that didn't have a lot of books in it. When I was very young we lived in a house that had been built by my great great uncle in the late 1880's, it still had his library (which in the best Victorian manner was an actual, albeit small, library) as well as boxes of book club choices mouldering in odd attic corners that must have been the reading choice of his successor, it's thanks to her old books that I discovered 'Gentleman Prefer Blondes' and had I been less fastidious about mould I might have found lots of 

I love this cover and wish I'd found time to read it

other gems too. All I really remember about my parents reading matter from those very early days were lots of copies of The Reader's Digest.

In the next house we lived in my mother had one whole wall of the sitting room turned over to books but I was to engrossed in Enid Blyton to pay much attention to them. Father and Stepmother's current bookshelves are an interesting mix of odds and ends that came out of both these houses including notebooks that his great uncle must have inherited from previous generations, more readers digest stuff, my stepmother's cookbooks (she's a chef so she has a lot of those, I have newer paperback versions of all the same Jane Grigson and Elizabeth David titles) her taste in fiction. There are a mass of Shetland specific books and a collection of tatty paperbacks that reflect the years when they ran a hotel/guest house - I can't tell if they reflect Bo's taste particularly or if they're the sort of books

that accumulate when a lot of people come and go.

I will take a better look at this one next time

It's a very friendly collection of books, mine are somewhat more curated - I ran out of space a while back so a book needs to earn it's shelf spot, this lot reflect an extended family rather than a single person and don't seem to have any sort of door policy. I like finding familiar things amongst this lot, and was especially delighted to find some crumbling Victorian books that feel like real treasures. I remember finding the moth book as a child and thinking it was the most beautiful thing I'd

ever seen. There is also an old recipe book from the first half of the 19th century which is fascinating. It's hard to read but Bo did once make a butter and almond tart out of it. It called for an obscene amount of butter and tasted pretty good as I recall. Sadly there isn't very much in that book, but it's interesting to see that it had been used by at least 3 different people and for well over a century.    

So how many is too many and what happens next?

I currently share my one bedroom flat with roughly 1600 books (I gave up counting somewhere near 1450 but that was a while ago and they keep coming in) and I have to ask – where will the next one go? I’m not getting any more space and, well, the books do keep on coming. There’s a pattern (which will be familiar to many) starting with my famous five collection. I start off with a shelf, the shelf gets filled, another shelf arrives (the first extra shelf when I was about 7 came with a reading light attached courtesy of my dad being quite good at that sort of thing, I don’t get that sort of attention to detail now.)

When we moved from Shetland to Leicestershire there was a whole (small) wall of shelves in the room I shared with my sister. I appropriated the shelves, my sister had to make do with some in the airing cupboard but she’s not a reader so there’s no need for sympathy. Eventually I set off for university leaving the by now overflowing shelves behind, amazingly my sister put up with this situation.

Halls or residence have surprisingly modest shelving provision and I had a corresponding income so the book situation stabilised for a couple of years – until I moved into a flat. I got more shelves which acted like a magnet (or something). A couple of years later I moved back home with guess what – yes indeed, more books. When I moved again it was into a shared house so ¾’s of my books went into storage. I kept on acquiring books which ended up living in suitcases under the bed – one of the many reasons it seemed like time to take the leap and buy a flat. The edge of fear that came with mortgaging my soul and future to the bank was blunted by the generous wall space I acquired in the transaction.

But now 6 years later the shelves are filled, the walls are filled, every surface and quite a bit of the floor has books on it and it’s time for a tidy up. The answer is not by the way a kindle. I can’t afford one, and don’t want one. I like books, I like being surrounded by books, (I just don’t like the feral state they’re descending into at the moment). I’ve sort of tried ebooks in that there are some stored somewhere in the bowls of my laptop but they’re out of sight and out of mind which means the chances of me reading them are negligible. What I really need are some ingenious and possibly decorative storage solutions (sadly a bigger home is out of the question).

It seems to be a bookshop/taxidermist...

I’ve spent most the weekend working, and by working I mean personally shifting a mountain of beer from loading bay, to stockroom, to shelf. It’s a dirty job with a more than average chance of cuts, bruises, and getting sprayed head to foot in Carling if (and they often do) a can splits. The upside is that my chances of winning an arm wrestling contest are a lot better than they were a week ago and the blonde took me on a book hunting day trip.

We de these from time to time in the hopes that we’ll hit bookshop nirvana, and whilst so far the Astley Book Farm has been our best find by a long way the quest continues. This week we hit Stamford – which is undeniably picture postcard perfect and has an amazing second hand bookshop, which as you might have gathered from the title also sells a range of taxidermy (we didn’t dare ask why). St Marys books and prints is more of an antiquarian book shop than anything else, though I managed to find Eudora Welty’s ‘Losing Battles’ (a nice old Virago which is the main quarry on these expeditions) and Bemelmans ‘Life Class’ in a lovely old penguin jacket. Had I £30,000 to dispose of I could have had a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. We didn’t see the actual books, but we did see their photograph.

Even without seeing the Austen’s in the flesh (leather?) there are very plush bookcases full of quite exciting looking bits and bobs along the Angela Brazil lines. I love looking at these books just for the bindings, and should I ever have the space to have books just for decoration (not that I wouldn’t read them, but in truth I like books as compact as possible so that I can fit more of them in the flat) I’d love a collection of those early twentieth century boys and girls own type books – the ones with the very camp titles preferably.

By then we were feeling pretty please with Stamford – lovely town, intriguing side streets, Emma Bridgewater and Cath Kidston as far as the eye could see, and then we went to The George for a toilet stop.  The George is pretty spectacular anyway – a properly historic coaching inn that makes you feel like you’re in the middle of a Georgette Heyer novel, but it has gone down in my memory as the place with the most glamorous toilets I have ever seen. Now I’m not claiming to be any sort of expert in this field but I’ve seen some more than adequate powder rooms in my time, but nothing to equal this... Even the oddly disorientating effect of going over five county borders in as many minutes (Lincolnshire, Rutland, Cambridgeshire, Northamptonshire and Leicestershire – not necessarily in that order, and because I knew you’d want to know!) couldn’t compete with those toilets. In conclusion an okay town for books, best place in the country to go to the toilet.

The rest of the weekend (such as it’s been) has been dedicated to rearranging the ‘new’ bookshelf which I actually put up in February, and which has finally got its permanent allocation of books. Despite being the new bookshelf it took no time at all to over fill it, get frustrated, change my mind, move the books, and then put the same books back again. Records show that I haven’t acquired an extra 200 books this year, but moving things seems to have created exactly no extra shelf space anywhere, and far too many books are still piled on the floor. How can this be?

D.I.Why

I know it’s a pun so old it deserves to be left in peace but I’m dusting it off and bringing it out anyway. Today’s post should have been a triumphant celebration of brand new (Valentine?) book shelves – like the scholar and gentleman he is the Scottish one took me to IKEA today and dropped me and a flat pack box safely off at home this afternoon. I dismissed his offer of help as befits an independent modern woman, I also dismissed my father’s hint of incredulity – but guess what – pride comes before a fall.

Bits laid out and dust flying (I really out to do something about hovering) I tried to make sense of the instructions. Three hours later having taken the shelves apart once to put in a bit I’d forgotten about, and again because of a bit that wouldn’t fit I am left with some exceptionally wobbly shelves which won’t go where I want them to thanks to floor boards which wouldn’t stand the scrutiny of a spirit level, and the lack of a back board that I don’t have room to slide in. I tried fitting it in other ways but all that achieved was frustration on my part and some damage to the (card)board board. Thank you IKEA.

The blond is coming round tomorrow and has promised some assistance – perhaps two independent modern women will be better than one. The handy (sic) illustrations for assembly suggest that it’s a two person job – which sounds like the beginning of a really crappy joke – ‘How many women does it take to build a billy shelf – two, one to... ah you get the idea. I do feel that I ought to be able to do this myself though.

If the blond and I fail then the Scottish one has promised to come round with his magic man wand and fix the problem – he assures me that this is a euphemism for a screw driver and that screw driver is a euphemism for nothing but screw driver. I probably owe him a bit of feminine admiration for his handy man skills as well as the opportunity to show them off, and I do want the shelves up and usable – it will be nice to have the floor back book free – but it’s still very galling not to be able to do this myself.

On top of all that my choice of bright blue shelves is not as satisfactory as I hoped (as the Scottish one pointed out might be the case and I have now admitted to him). Also my bedroom which was the only place left in the flat bookshelf free (though by no means book free) now not so shelf free looks a little bit to like a student room again. It seems I am destined never to be an adult, just to grow older.

And hold the press - I managed it, actually managed it all alone - and not as unsteady as in the picture here... So much for IKEA - I win. Right I'm off to arrange victory books without further delay!