There was a postal packet on my chair when I arrived home today. What's that, I thought.
"Must be one of those thousand-dollar books I've ordered from the States." I quipped to Dolores.
I carefully open the package, while ducking the darts from Dolores's eyes. "Encoulez-moi! C'est l'Oxford Companion to Beer!"*
Not sure of the hows and whys. But here it is:
I shouldn't need to explain this to regular viewers of my book piles, but I'm not "dissing" the book by storing it as pictured above. Quite the opposite. I've removed the dust jacket in my sad, sad, sad, sad, sad way to make sure I don't damage it. I'll laminate it at the weekend.
A seductively beautiful book. And I have a book fetish.
Let's just leave it here downstairs.
* I often lapse into Franglais in times of great emotion. Understandable. It's my first language.
Over a Damask Cloth - On a wintry day in February, 1948, the newly founded Baltimore branch of the Wine and Food Society held what was nominally called a “Wine Tasting”, at the ...
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