Friday, September 6 Honestly, the first thing I heard this morning as someone walked past the bookshop door I cannot even type because it includes the worst of all the swears, but I will tell you that it was in the sentence “and then she called my mum a —” and it sounded like that was just one thing in a long list of things that she did. So, really, who is the —?

First lady through the door asks about books by Ray Mears. I haven’t heard that name for a while, I say, like someone in a smoky bar in a black-and-white film.

“But he’s still relevant!” the customer says. We look at the catalogue to see what books are available and it turns out he published one earlier this year about British woodland, which, honestly, we should have had in because that’s the sort of thing that just sells. I’ve got one coming in the next order, but not for the customer, who said she was going home to research the other Ray Mears books, and assured me that she wouldn’t buy them online; she will come back and order them with me. Really, she is a lot like Ray Mears herself: concerned with survival.

A new customer takes some time browsing every inch of the bookshop, making a beautiful pile of purchases at the till. I’m thrilled with the selection, which includes some impeccable middle-grade fiction, hardback picture-book perfection and one of my favorite childhood books, Joan Aiken’s A Necklace of Raindrops . It’s probably been a few years since we last sold this book, but I’m immediately reordering it because it should always be available to happen to someone else.

I live in the constant shadow of all the books I said I was excited to read and didn’t get round to actually reading for another three years.

Dog on lead tries to enter the shop. Owner pulls it back. Owner’s companion says, “Does he want a book?” and laughs, but, like, what if he does?

“ Look, Theresa May has written a book. The Abuse of Power— I should put that one in my staff room!”

A chain gang of toddlers, hitched together with neon straps, en route to the beach from a nearby nursery, go past the bookshop with their responsible adults. “Are you a big book reader?” I hear one of them ask an impossibly small boy. “Yep!” he says. Good lad.