(no subject)

[nny]

It's not the tweed, see. Not entirely. It's everything tweed implies. It's... steadiness, and durability/reliability. And books, dust, tea. Thick yellowing paper. Brogues and heavy rattling bicycles, apples in bicycle baskets, bells. Not chivalry, necessarily, but politeness even to the people you dislike - eloquent insults that take a good while to register, and may never at all. Dust that isn't young and active, but old and tired; the dust of years. The comforting smell of old books in company with other old books, and the silk of aged wood shelves, and slightly hushed voices. Classic FM, and radio four, and Stephen Fry on Just a Minute. Shelving books on a hot day with shirt sleeves rolled. Home made lemonade.

I accept that I will never be 'cool'.

*grins*

Comments

[quean-of-swords.livejournal.com]

See, now, I must not be 'cool', because I just thought, "Damn. Tweed is the coolest thing ever."

Of course, there is the possibility that tweed is what is cool. Screw faux fur and sparkley-spangly things. Tweed is where it's at. Tweed has staying power.

[kenovay.livejournal.com]

I still get it, but don't want it.

I want the impulsiveness and the itchy feet and the sun which isn't English, could never be English, and the shouting voices and the laughing and the crazy hats and the aeroplanes and the boats and... yes.

I am the coolest person alive, and all should bow to me. *nods*

[illmantrim.livejournal.com]

See, now, as a utter anc omplete bookgeek? that, to me, is utterly cool!

*grins*

[halfwest.livejournal.com]

And in my curious little world, people call me crazy when I say things like that, as if it doesn't exist. As if I'm making it up.

They're half right. I can't know: I've never been there. But I can't help feeling it's where I belong.