Treasures
“Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content.”
Paul Valery certainly knew what he was talking about, and he was born way back in 1871. The weather gave Raven Books a hard time recently; “the dog ate my homework” is an excuse that is sometimes true (cats just sit on them); humidity is a big problem in many areas of the world; and as for content, well, books are still being banned for the most ridiculous reasons; but fire is the one terrifying reality that can happen in the blink of an eye, anywhere, anytime.
When we were young and foolish with two young children, a willing babysitter was like manna from heaven. Out we went one such eventful night, along De Vesci Place, down York Road, left on Lower Georges Street and into the nearest hostelry for a pint of plain, half a lager and a packet of crisps after which we ambled home again, arm in arm. As we turned in through the old gated archway we spied the fire brigade in the distance; uniformed men (no women then) marching briskly in and out of some poor unfortunate’s home (probably the old folk next door, we muttered), a long hose stretched snakelike, gushing its contents on some idiot’s reckless fire. We giggled, tut tutting about careless behaviour, walking innocently up that path until we arrived at number 3 and gazed downward through the large picture window of the basement flat, our home, where hunky firemen flashed in and out of view.
It seems our sitter had banked the fire up high setting the chimney ablaze. When she ran up to tell our landlord, to use his phone to call for help, she accidentally locked the door behind her with both babes fast asleep inside.
All’s well that ends well but it got me thinking about many things: the benefits of
having a phone, never going out again until my children were over 21! and wondering what I would save first – apart from my beloved family, of course – in the event of such a disaster ever occurring again. It would have to be four notebooks filled with lists of all the books I have read since Christmas Day, 1966, when I was fourteen years old. My mother gave the notebooks to me and after much time debating about what I’d write in these pristine pages, I settled on noting down the date at the top of each page, then the title and author of each book after I had read them. Looking back is like reading a diary, every title conjuring a memory, every year seeing how my tastes have changed and evolved over time.
I hope I never have to dash out the door with these treasured notebooks under my arm, but just in case, they sit together, in a slipcase, second drawer down in the hall cupboard, just in case…
Paul Valery certainly knew what he was talking about, and he was born way back in 1871. The weather gave Raven Books a hard time recently; “the dog ate my homework” is an excuse that is sometimes true (cats just sit on them); humidity is a big problem in many areas of the world; and as for content, well, books are still being banned for the most ridiculous reasons; but fire is the one terrifying reality that can happen in the blink of an eye, anywhere, anytime.
When we were young and foolish with two young children, a willing babysitter was like manna from heaven. Out we went one such eventful night, along De Vesci Place, down York Road, left on Lower Georges Street and into the nearest hostelry for a pint of plain, half a lager and a packet of crisps after which we ambled home again, arm in arm. As we turned in through the old gated archway we spied the fire brigade in the distance; uniformed men (no women then) marching briskly in and out of some poor unfortunate’s home (probably the old folk next door, we muttered), a long hose stretched snakelike, gushing its contents on some idiot’s reckless fire. We giggled, tut tutting about careless behaviour, walking innocently up that path until we arrived at number 3 and gazed downward through the large picture window of the basement flat, our home, where hunky firemen flashed in and out of view.
It seems our sitter had banked the fire up high setting the chimney ablaze. When she ran up to tell our landlord, to use his phone to call for help, she accidentally locked the door behind her with both babes fast asleep inside.
All’s well that ends well but it got me thinking about many things: the benefits of
having a phone, never going out again until my children were over 21! and wondering what I would save first – apart from my beloved family, of course – in the event of such a disaster ever occurring again. It would have to be four notebooks filled with lists of all the books I have read since Christmas Day, 1966, when I was fourteen years old. My mother gave the notebooks to me and after much time debating about what I’d write in these pristine pages, I settled on noting down the date at the top of each page, then the title and author of each book after I had read them. Looking back is like reading a diary, every title conjuring a memory, every year seeing how my tastes have changed and evolved over time. I hope I never have to dash out the door with these treasured notebooks under my arm, but just in case, they sit together, in a slipcase, second drawer down in the hall cupboard, just in case…
Labels: Fire, notebooks, Paul Valery, weather
