a memoir from welly

I nearly bought a bookmark today, remembering when I used to stockpile them; many bookmarks for the many books I had on the go. I saw some nice bookmarks at the market this morning.

This evening, on holidays, I was reading a book of essays I got for my birthday. Admittedly I had already skipped the first two essays, otherwise known as the forward and the introduction. I was not in the mood for reading essays about essays.

Just the essays.

I should have mentioned that this was a paper book, printed on paper. One day the need to explain such will be rare. Perhaps. I finished the first essay and realised there was no bookmark button. No buttons at all. Nor did I have any bookmarks, being away.

So I resorted to the flexible cardboard that had encircled the socks I did buy at the market this morning. And I recalled that, despite having piles of bookmarks, I never had one close to hand to insert between the pages. Scraps of cardboard or paper usually sufficed.

Some things don’t change. Not really.

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