The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips.

[tysolna]

Lower Saxony, 2006. It was a rainy day, with only a few peeks of sunshine poking through the miserable grey clouds. The house was cold, as it was close to Easter and some clever guy had turned off the heating, supposing that no-one would be here in the afternoon except for a few struggling students. But here I was, sitting in the computer language lab bureau, alone except for the coffee on the table and some sugar-free chewing-gum in the top drawer for company.

My job was to digitize tapes. Old tapes that no-one had touched for years, if not decades. Old tapes with English Literature on them, poetry, drama, important stuff. But then, it happened. I reached the letter "C", after a lot of Auden and Austen, of Bronte and Beckett, of Byron and Blake, and there he was: Chandler.

Raymond Chandler.

Three novels, dramatized by the BBC, no less.

Now, reading this would be perfect stuff over the Easter holidays. However, as usual when I want to check something out of the Uni library which is either not High Literature or Really Important, it's in the magazine, which means it will only be there for pick-up the next day. And guess what the next day is? Correct: Good Friday. They're closed.
Good thing I still have my city library card. Off I go - wish me good hunting!

Comments

[manchester-red.livejournal.com]

rock on, Tommy!