It's been a while since I've visited a Library, mainly because I've no time to write or read and is a shameful admission for a lifelong bookworm like me. Alphonse though, takes 'bookworm' and trumps it with his enormous collection of technical books on, well, everything. The 'Bottomless Pit of Engineering' is a well-thumbed favourite, as is 'How to Make Your Own Guitar' (for beginners) acquired around the time Eric Clapton picked up his first plectrum and 'Teach Yourself Sailing' is a hoot from our perspective being buried in the most landlocked county in England. Please don't mention Rutland Water which is cold enough, even in mid-Summer, to freeze the flippers off an Emperor. Alphonse picks up the slim volume occasionally, sighs a lot, then returns it to the Habitat bookcase in the hall with its bulging shelves and slightly bowed top filled with X-File videos back from Series 1. No, I'm not getting rid of them because our JVC VHS still works, thank you.
Imagine my horror then when he stumbled home with a carrier bag filled with local Library rejects, the main event being an American DVD about woodworking, specifically making your own bench from raw timber. For the old fashioned amongst you, you might want to buy a decent bench before you start making your own furniture but what do I know? Essentially, it's a gripping watch about hand tool wood working. I said nothing because I had a particularly arduous shift in Medical Records ahead of me and feeling totally envious of his now seamless relaxation schedule, I left in a huff. Returning hours later with shredded nerves and raw talons, I noticed something amiss with The Nest. It drifted in darkness surrounded by a sea of privet hedge save for a mad flickering light pouring from the living room window, so I let myself in with all the stealth of a rampant hippo just in case any miscreants had broken in. No, I don't keep a baseball bat by the front door either.
In screenwriting terms, I'd describe the scene before me as 'ALPHONSE, a slumped man, greying hair, spectacles slipped over to one side, an uneaten bacon sandwich on white curled bread gaping open, old newspapers and DVD cases litter the sofa. Cold tea on the table. He's fit but has no strength to reach for the remote, being completely hypnotised by the screen, now flickering.' If I'd banged a gong it wouldn't have ejected Alphonse from his state of hypnosis so I poked him unceremoniously and demanded an explanation.
"Have you been self medicating on Horlicks or what?" He unfurled a tanned finger, pointed to the screen and then tapped on the box of the DVD.
"It's this thing." He mumbled of the dread woodworking DVD. "Interesting ... can't keep eyes open." He drifted off again. Now I have some sympathy with his situation, as does anyone who's dozed off to the hypnotic voice of actor Sam Neill, narrator of 'New Zealand: Earth's Mythical Islands' on Beeb2 lately. Yes indeed, they are mythical, awesome and staggeringly beautiful but I've not lasted past the 25 minute mark without reaching for a snuggly blanket, and please don't mention Sir David Attenborough's delicate delivery during 'Blue Planet' either. Somehow, I had to get Alphonse's blood pumping so I made him a double bagged mug of tea and questioned his motivation.
"It's hardly porn is it? What can be so bad about a bloke making a bench?'
"Voice. Three hours ... bloke planing like Gibbs in NCIS. So relaxed ... can't move." Thankfully, the caffeine kick-started his metabolic system and he struggled to recover from the slump. On further questioning it seems the chap who presented the DVD had a southern States drawl more relaxing than a Paul McKenna CD on Ultimate Relaxation. I have a signed one of these too but am too stressed to listen to it. and there's strict instructions not to use it in the car whilst driving.
Washed and primped, we went out for tea to a new Turkish eaterie in the Village with Them Next Door. Alphonse and Ian were buoyed up by the Platter for 4, costing a measly £27.00, vowing to finish it up themselves without including Bel or me in the feast. When the bulging platter arrived they subtly changed their tune and generously volunteered to share its glorious mezze dips, crusty flatbread and succulent kebabs. No alcohol, of course. I had Ayran which, if you've had a gyppy stomach in Turkey for example, you'll know it's a finely crafted drink made from yoghurt and soda water and will calm a bad night's voyage around Cape Horn. The owner was so impressed that I knew what it was, he made some for me personally. No, I didn't share with him my torrid tale of getting food poisoning after a barbecue on a Turkish beach however, or the subsequent six weeks off work.
Just as the boys had their elbows in the air over the kebabs, the owner asked if we'd like some fish to go with it? As a quartet, we just nodded and he got on with delivering a filet of Moby Dick accompanied by more rice and salad. Somewhere between a lamb kofta and the baclava, I decided to check out the decor at the side of me. It looked like a Library with a vintage typewriter and shelves piled up with matching sets of books you only find in stately homes these days. Then a dusty blue pile caught my beady eye. Selecting the book from the top, I brushed off the dust jacket and opened it up to reveal the contents of "Teach Yourself Writing." It's one we don't have and I'm grateful. Leicester University have just sent me an invitation to join next year's MA course in Creative Writing for a snip of £10,000; I could get a loan they joyfully informed me. 'That's a new car' scoffed Alphonse who did his Metallurgy degree when University education was free in the UK. So no, I don't think that will be happening either.
Tip of the Beak: Another Library story from a few days later moved me to tears. I tuned in to Radio4 to hear a young boy, maybe 12 years old, talking with passion and hope about his Library. He was besieged in the depths of Syria and the only place of safety he could find was at the heart of the wreckage. His Library had a cubby hole with 'The Management' on the door. He had a desk and his own chair, and spoke with fierce pride about how they keep going despite the bombs. They had all the great Syrian writers he told us, and a more adult helper shared tales of dangerous scavenging raids in the ruined city for books, any book to add to their collection. Proudly, they admitted, they have a 'top shelf' too. And a young doctor broke into the interview reiterating the necessity for keeping the medical books together; sometimes it was his only way he said of being able to perform surgery on wounds they'd never seen before. Finally the frail voice of a small girl ultimately broke my heart. She told us she was seven, and had only one meal a day of rice and water, and that most nights she goes to bed hungry yet books are her lifeline. Someday, they all agreed that by keeping the Library of Hope open they will be well enough educated to understand why this is happening to them.
