KEY POINTS:
I can't quite believe that we get to read books free. It's one of the great joys of my life that I can walk to my local library and pick up a book to read, the equivalent of several days' entertainment, for nothing. It's the only thing of
real value we get free in this country.
I spend a lot of time at my local library, which conveniently presents itself as a gothic-looking building giving me the immediate persona of a budding Jane Austen as I enter its doors. I'm always surprised it's not packed out with people eager to take advantage of a good book. Perhaps reading still has a way to go in the "exciting ways to spend your weekend" stakes.
The only problem with my library is that, as it's a community-gathering place, I run into my husband's former wife quite a lot. It's always nice to see her so that's not the problem. It's the books I get out that are.
My library gets books for me from other libraries for $1. The librarian has to get them from behind the counter. And that's the problem. Once, I was researching a piece about keeping love alive in marriage. Honestly. I write an advice column. Truly.
I had gathered a few interesting-looking books off the shelves and went to check them out and pick up the marriage book I had ordered earlier, which proved elusive. While the librarian hunted, I chatted to the former wife until we were interrupted with:
"Ah here it is. Under L instead of N for Nissen. Resurrecting Sex: Solving Sexual Problems and Revolutionizing Your Relationship _ is that it?"
"It's for research!" I shouted, a little too quickly. "Something I'm writing," I attempted, as I avoided looking at her face for fear of seeing either a commiserating look that often passes between women who have or had the same husband, or a stunned "what the hell?"
By the time I had produced my card and checked out the offending title, she had wandered off into the kids' section, so I'll never know which look she gave me.
The second time was when the two of us met again and were chatting at the counter while I waited for the librarian to retrieve the book I had ordered, which once again seemed not to have been filed under N for Nissen.
We were discussing her recent trip to Europe and my upcoming one to Venice, where I was defending my right to travel alone to someone I knew would see it my way.
"Ah here it is. Venice for Lovers _ is that the one?" shouted the librarian.
This time I didn't even attempt the research line.
"Yes, that's right. It's a book for lovers of Venice, you know. Not the other way around, ha, ha," I said weakly.
The librarian smiled. I knew she believed me. She is my favourite librarian.
I don't know her name because I've never asked, but she always makes me laugh and on this occasion rescued me from deep shame and humiliation by presenting yet another book she knew I'd love. The last one was about how to ice cupcakes so that they look like body parts. This one was titled I Like You, Hospitality Under the Influence, by Amy Sedaris.
I'm not sure how my favourite librarian got to know me so well, but I appreciate that she takes the time to keep books aside that will amuse me. As an author I'm supposed to dislike the library system because the 17 copies of my book doing the rounds in the Auckland catalogue stop people paying for it.
I can see that's a problem for publishers, but I'm pathetically grateful people are reading it and have to resist the urge to bribe my favourite librarian to access the computer system so I can email a letter of appreciation to each lender. Knowing they're being entertained for nothing is one of the great joys of my life.