There was a murder in the library this afternoon. Well, not an actual murder, but the story of the murder, a relative of the murderer, and the murderer's friend. I was sitting innocently on the 'comfy sofa' preparing myself for work. In essence this means concentrating for as long as possible on reading material and ignoring the cacophony of screaming babies, crawling toddlers, mothers talking to other mothers about pram jogging and Pilates, and the elderly deaf (mostly men) chatting with slightly raised voices. A young man was going though the same CD piles over and over again without looking at them - click click click click....
I don't particularly mind all of this - but on a Thursday afternoon the term 'library' is less informative than perhaps 'community drop in centre and local creche'. So I'm sitting on the sofa engrossed in the latest Granta when an elderly man is dropped off onto my sofa by his daughter. His toddler grandson is roaring up and down the Romance aisle. He has a vague smell of whisky about him, and walks with a stick. He strikes up conversation.
Within seconds I glean that he is a self confessed alcoholic (bottle and half of whisky a day he claims), he knew someone living in Spain who claimed his wife's pension for eight years after she died, he has been in and out of hospital with alcohol related problems - and please could he have my sticks because they look better than his?
A young man sits down at our table. My new found friend strikes up conversation - recognising the man as a relative of his friend. The young man has just been laid off - lost his job in the construction industry. Come in to read the paper, and perhaps to kill time. I feel sorry for him. Here am I on full pay, idling time at the library. But I don't join in. I focus on A. L. Kennedy and her rather fabulous fictional account of her teeth. The young man leaves and the old man leans in to me conspiratorially.
"That lad is related to a murderer. Got life the bloke. Been out for long time though. Loaded. Drugs, crime. Killed someone in a fight in a bar... The lad's alright though - you can't be responsible for your relatives." I am aghast but strangely titillated. Like finding a red top on the bus - you know you shouldn't read it but there just might be something gruesome so you stretch over to grab it and pray that no one sees. I get a few more details, including the location, then he changes the subject.
On the way home, staggering in the wind, I meet another old man with a stick. I recognise this one - met him in Scotmid yesterday - he was hit by a truck in the 1970s in London and has suffered ever since. Head injuries. We exchange pleasantries, compare wind and stick notes (which is better in the wind - one stick or two?) and continue on our separate ways. I don't tell him my murder story - but I probably will the next time I see him. Because so far, he's one up on the truck story - and I need something to compete.
I don't particularly mind all of this - but on a Thursday afternoon the term 'library' is less informative than perhaps 'community drop in centre and local creche'. So I'm sitting on the sofa engrossed in the latest Granta when an elderly man is dropped off onto my sofa by his daughter. His toddler grandson is roaring up and down the Romance aisle. He has a vague smell of whisky about him, and walks with a stick. He strikes up conversation.
Within seconds I glean that he is a self confessed alcoholic (bottle and half of whisky a day he claims), he knew someone living in Spain who claimed his wife's pension for eight years after she died, he has been in and out of hospital with alcohol related problems - and please could he have my sticks because they look better than his?
A young man sits down at our table. My new found friend strikes up conversation - recognising the man as a relative of his friend. The young man has just been laid off - lost his job in the construction industry. Come in to read the paper, and perhaps to kill time. I feel sorry for him. Here am I on full pay, idling time at the library. But I don't join in. I focus on A. L. Kennedy and her rather fabulous fictional account of her teeth. The young man leaves and the old man leans in to me conspiratorially.
"That lad is related to a murderer. Got life the bloke. Been out for long time though. Loaded. Drugs, crime. Killed someone in a fight in a bar... The lad's alright though - you can't be responsible for your relatives." I am aghast but strangely titillated. Like finding a red top on the bus - you know you shouldn't read it but there just might be something gruesome so you stretch over to grab it and pray that no one sees. I get a few more details, including the location, then he changes the subject.
On the way home, staggering in the wind, I meet another old man with a stick. I recognise this one - met him in Scotmid yesterday - he was hit by a truck in the 1970s in London and has suffered ever since. Head injuries. We exchange pleasantries, compare wind and stick notes (which is better in the wind - one stick or two?) and continue on our separate ways. I don't tell him my murder story - but I probably will the next time I see him. Because so far, he's one up on the truck story - and I need something to compete.
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