Shelves, this week I have been slightly obsessed with shelves. I love my books, although I completely accept most of them I will never be read again. I like to see them on shelves. I like to look at them and remember the stories, remember when or where they were read. One day I hope that maybe some of them might be read by my son. I love the colours of their spines across the shelves.
I hate books in boxes, it bothers me. Over the past few months, I’ve become slightly obsessed with shelves. Since being reunited with boxes of books in storage, I am itching to get them onto shelves and madly pinning images of shelves.
First of all I thought we’d simply built shelves across the alcoves either side of the chimney breast. Then we debated at length, should this be in the front room or the back room. Then I decided that no, that wouldn’t do. I wanted book shelves for a different wall altogether. The chosen wall, although perfectly capable of part holding up a ceiling, isn’t, apparently, capable of supporting shelves. This is demonstrated to me several times, via a sharp tap with a finger joint, it sounds different to the other walls. It looks perfectly wall like to me, not wall enough for shelves on the scale I desire. Next, hours of family life are lost to furniture websites, only to decided most book shelves are ugly (apologies to book shelves, that’s just my opinion).
So to eBay for older bookshelves, secondhand, sorry ‘vintage’ as thing on eBay seems to be described as. Merrily I clicked ‘watch’ on enough bookshelves to re-furnish the local Public Library, none of them really suitable. Then I went back to the wall in question, it isn’t square to the room. Not unusual in a Victorian terrace. I wonder if the bookcase I have in mind (which as yet does not yet seem to exist) will sit neatly along it.
Bookshelves in the alcoves are the way forward, I decide, firmly, back room (probably).
This decision-making process does not bode well for the all the interior decisions to be made over the coming months. Is it just me?