Memories of working in a bookshop...

I just posted this as a comment on Literary Gas, and because tonight I will be taking Rita to her puppy school graduation ceremony (yes, I'm serious), it can be the blog post that I meant to write tonight...

my working-in-a-bookshop story:

me: Hi, can I help you?

she: (in a peculiar accent that you only find in shopping centres some distance from the city) Yeah. You know that man who wrote Lord of the Rings?

me: (dubiously) ye-es.

she: What's his latest book?

me: He's dead.

she: No, no. There's a new one. There was a thing in the Herald Sun.

me: No. He's dead. He's been that way for quite some time.

she: There's a new book!

me: (trying to be helpful) There's a movie.

she: (scowling) I'm not stupid.

me: (thinking of her brother and his baseball bat) Oh, no.

she: It's called The Goblin.

me: (sigh)...

she: What?

me: It's called The Hobbit.

she: Whatever. Do you have it?

me: Sure. But he's still dead.