Out with the new, in with the old

Was anyone else shocked to find that Borders on Oxford Street no longer is? It happened quite a few months ago, but what the heck -- does nobody in this town buy books any more? Where am I supposed to buy my Vogue India now? And all those other niche magazines, like Dazed & Confused? And where am I going to guiltlessly loiter on a slow weekend, reading the pictures in overpriced coffee-table books before returning them back to the shelf? I know I am not alone: hundreds of people before and after me had done the same, until those large-format volumes started to crease and tear, dying a slow death in between shelves, around them and underneath them. Too pretty not to look at, too useless to buy. And then the shop went bankrupt.

Ooooooh well, fuck new books and their shiny Oxford Street graves. To be honest, I sort of hated Borders -- it always got so stuffy and hot in there with all those other people competing for my oxygen, their hum-hum-humming laptops and steaming Starbucks lattes. Eventually, I would always rush down the escalators, elbow my way out like it was a matter of life and death, stand outside on the pavement hyperventilating and crying for some space while masses of shoppers threatened to flatten me if I don't move out of their way. No, no, no ... take me where books come to breathe. Take me to the second-hand book market under Waterloo Bridge, in front of the National Film Theatre on the south bank of the Thames. Saturdays & Sundays in all weather.

Is there anything better than the smell of old books? They should make perfume out of it; they should make incense sticks; they should make soap and washing-up liquid and toilet bleach, so that my whole world can smell of old books.

My TimeOut London guide claims that "In summer, it [the book market] helps the South Bank vaguely resemble Paris' Left Bank." Vaguely should be noted as the key word here -- our South Bank will always be a little more "60s decrepit concrete", and a little less "Notre Dame". But in the evening, with ugly details hidden in the darkness and pretty details glowing in the shine of London's old-fashioned street lamps, it's even more romantic than Paris.