Anyway, this is a story that took place about a week ago. I had a long trip home from work – a trip I’d taken many times, so I’m pretty bored of it by now. But that’s okay, I, as always, had a book.
Except, at the bus stop, I opened the book, read a few pages – then realised I’d finished. The fifty pages I thought I had left were just notes. I was in that awful situation – I had nothing to read.
The bookshop was closed. The local shop only sold magazines of the ‘Heat’ ilk. They wouldn’t do. That would be the equivalent of wanting a three course meal, and being offered a soggy crisp instead.
I had to do without, for an hour. And it was hell. My boredom level shot up, and as that went up, my anger and frustration went up too. My over-active and under-stimulated mind couldn’t settle on any one thing (including creating my own story) and instead raged about how much everyone annoyed it. I became jumpy and annoyed and in need. In other words, I was suffering withdrawal symptoms. I only started to feel better when I got home, and picked up a book.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you ‘the world doesn’t need another book’. There’s people like me in the world. We need all the books we can get.