You tell yourself that you want to be more cultured, that you want to have something to talk about with people other than what you ate for dinner last night. You’re fed up of laughing your way through the cartoon section of the newspaper, laughing because you didn’t really get the joke but felt obliged too anyway because the nosey person next to you was looking over your shoulder. You like stuff to be spelled out for you, so you decide that reading a book would be the perfect solution.

You ask friends and colleagues for book recommendations. You nod emphatically to their suggestions, taking care to remember at least one of the titles they suggest; only that joke you read this morning from the cartoon section suddenly makes sense and you laugh, completely forgetting what your colleague just said. But that’s ok; you remember the gist of it, right?

Time flies, and before you know it you’re off on holiday and you still haven’t managed to buy that book that YOU MUST READ. What was the name of it again? You make a quick stop in the airport bookshop. You approach a member of staff and you say: I want to buy a book. My friend recommended it to me. I can’t remember the title exactly, but it was something funny.

Oh wait no. That was the joke you laughed at.

You can’t work out why the staff member is giving you a blank look.

They’re asking you if it’s a new book. Or if you know the name of the author. Or a word from the title. But all you can remember is that stupid joke, and before you know it you’re saying something about “a joke book,” just to stop you from looking stupid.

It’s too late.

The staff member eyes you suspiciously, they know, you think. THEY KNOW you’re making this up.

You follow them anyway to a particular aisle, and you both stand there. They pull out a couple of books for you to look at. One of the titles reads: Busty, Slag and Nob End. You are OUTRAGED. You are not that sort of girl. You look at the other book, it reads: Potty, Fartwell and Knob. Well you think, I did say a funny title.

They get called away by another customer and you’re left holding a couple of knobs. You shove the books back into the shelf, not caring where they’re supposed to go. You’re about to turn around and head straight out of the shop, but something catches your eye.

A book – THE book. The name of the title has suddenly come to you. You pull it out and flick through the pages. It’s full of cartoons. The same cartoons you read every morning on the way to work. That’s why the title looked familiar.

Oh what the heck. You buy the book.

The holiday was that good, you never had a moment to read the book. You decide to take it with you to read on your way into work.

You finally get that cultured, I’m-so-clever feeling that comes from reading a book on the tube. And that person still continues to look over your shoulder. You laugh. You still don’t get it. But that’s ok.

You’re reading a book. Mission accomplished.

I finish work just after noon when most people are still tucking into their lunches. By this time, I’ve already served a full day at work. I’m tired because I’ve been running around like a mad woman who’s forgotten her medication (I can say this because my mum’s crazy) putting books away and serving customers; and my feet hurt because I’ve had numerous trolleys/suitcases/cages rolled over them. You’d think they’d eventually become numb to the pain. But they don’t.

I walk to one end of the airport to clock out, then, trek to the other side to retireve my bag and jacket. I battle my way through check in and finally exit the building. My journey is far from over. I then brave the travelator and try not to get annoyed when people just stand there on it. Helpful advice: You go faster when you WALK on the damn thing.

I wait impatiently behind a tourist at the ticket barrier in the tube station, watching as they swipe their PAPER ticket against the Oyster card reader. Because of this, I’ve missed my train. I walk to the end of the platform where it’s quiet. I sit on the bench and then, I put my head in my filthy, dry skinned, broken nailed hands, and I whimper quietly.

Working in a bookshop completely wrecks your hands.

Once upon a time my hands used to be soft and supple and if, for some strange reason I’d ever gotten the opportunity to stroke a baby’s bottom, I’d say they used to be as soft as that.

Once upon a time my nails used to look nice. They were long. I used to paint them in various colours. I still have the bottles. Now they are chipped from breaking into the sealed boxes where the books are stored. They are chipped from forcing books into spaces that aren’t really spaces at all; I imagine this is what parting the red sea was like.

And books don’t just magically appear in the shop for me to put out, oh no. I have to pull a hu-uge metal cage through London’s busiest airport, dodging travellers as they stare dumbly at the over-priced -yet tax free!- perfumes that are on display.

Once upon a time my arms were free from bruises.  But hoisting HEAVY boxes of books out from those damned cages gives my arms a very unflattering black and blue and purple quality. Well, if I can’t paint my nails, I suppose I’ll make do with a splash of colour on my arms instead.

All this and I’ve yet to serve a customer. By the time I do, I feel like a filthy vagabond when giving back change. My hands, bloodied and bruised could do with a rest. Unfortunately, that cage still needs to go back – ready to be filled with yet more boxes.

Out I go, cage in tow, huffing and puffing, shouting: EXCUSE ME PLEASE, to anyone who cares to listen. They don’t care. I don’t listen – to their screams as I roll my cage over their toes. I round the corner. And what do I happen to see?

The male sales assistant from the designer handbag shop next door, applying copious amounts of lotion to his hands. Obviously faffing around with those over-priced leather bags all day wreaks havoc on the ol’ hands.

I’d wave hello but I’d probably spray blood all over his nice display.