The shop assistant scanned the three books I had placed on the counter. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head from the till and fixed me a long hard stare.
“Heavy duty...”, he commented.
I smiled. “And?”
I laughed. “Holiday reading”, I replied.
Conspiratorially, confidingly, he lent forward over the counter. “People at Canary Wharf buy trash to take on vacation”.
He withdrew, pulling himself up straight. Admiringly.
Nabakov. Chekov. Hamilton.