Yes, it was indeed a warehouse in every sense of the word – it was dark and dusty, hot and sweaty. It was the same as the last time, for little has changed. This did not stop me from going there thrice, though; for the past three days, it was with much amusement that I found myself having books for lunch instead.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when you are aware that a book warehouse sales is taking place just across the street from where you work, and there is simply no escaping that glaring fact despite the absence of flashing neon signs. It was probably the only thing worth looking forward to, after having spent a little over a month at the new location.
So there we were, confronted with books of all shapes and sizes, stacked in whichever way possible, without regard to any order or genre. But I was suitably unimpressed at the selections available – or rather, the lack of. “I couldn’t find the fantasy and sci-fi section,” I had moaned to my work colleagues, who, like me, had unwittingly contributed to their coffers anyway, what with our spontaneous and unplanned purchases. (The three shelves or so dubiously marked “Fantasy” there were a gross disappointment.)
I did manage to stumble upon books that would help put a few existing series that I already have to completion, so I found some sort of an unwarranted accomplishment in that. But I think it was the handiwork of one particular lupine fellow that had me expecting more.