This is what London shall come to. Silent, waiting streets, choked with makeshift barricades as we carve the city up into rival bookshop territories. Feral paper conservators huddled in dripping archways, patching up the wounded with waxed linen thread and rag paper.
The fog from seething kettles, samovars and coffee machines drifting in fragrant waves, herbal teas and builders’ brews warring with fine roasts and instant granules, until certain side-streets and alleyways are designated /cafetièrra ignota/, where none dare tread.
Meanwhile, the faithful, cleaving to their shop of choice, show their fealty with elaborate Ex Libris tattoos, and paint themselves with shades of Meltonian shoe cream in place of woad.
This is how it begins. Cordial jibes and arch comments.
This is how it begins. Cordial jibes and arch comments.
It ends with sharpened bone folders at dusk, and the loser sewn up in a shroud of endpapers and set adrift on the Thames.
Play nicely.
Play nicely.
• • •
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