Not being well enough to go to work today, I was asleep in bed when the postman nearly knocked the door down. I knew it must be the books I'd ordered – the leather-bound Walter Besant and Zangwill, both from 1900, and a first edition of the London Nobody Knows – so I roused my self quickly. I shouted after him wrapped in my duvet weakly explaining I was ill in case he thought I was just a lazy cow.
“Stay where you are; don't worry love,” came the reply as he gingerly placed my parcel just inside the door and scuttled off. On reflection, he must have been seeing an infected, smelly wreck as opposed to the svelte-young girl wrapped in nothing more than a duvet I would have preferred.
GJ, my colleague and collector of all things Sinclair, rang at about 4.20pm to check I was ok. Or so I thought. Pleasantries out the way he then dropped the bombshell. The author and psychogeographer Iain Sinclair had popped by the school, sat in my chair, at my desk, in my office as he wanted to see GJ's collection.
So, his books may be a little difficult to grasp in places but I am in awe of the man's knowledge, ideas and perseverance. And I missed him due to a bloody bad cold.
I rang Pat straight away for sympathy but he just laughed at me.