I shopped yesterday at my local Tesco's

Bulky cupboard back-ups

Because I had a lift home.

I left the guys to pack

Cans and cartons and bottles

Because they are particular

If not downright anal.

I sauntered on ahead

With my daffodil stems

And a pot of coriander

Not to be trusted to 'the men'.

 

I pass the shelf of 'charity books' regularly

And I no longer stop every time.

But yesterday -

My eyes slid sideways.

My foot raised to step forwards -

And came down on the same square centimetre.

Rooted!

I was rooted.

 

The book was smallish – in pristine condition

Its hard cover embossed with ripe oranges on their boughs

And bright red binding up the spine with golden letters:

'Foyle's Philavery'.

A classy little edition.

 

Foyle's WHAT!

I didn't even investigate further.

The cover, the colour, the feel of it in my hand

And the weird word were enough.

So I fished out fifty pence for the slotted box.

'What have you got?'

'No idea. But it looks interesting.'

'Fair enough,' And the guys bolted for the lift.

I hurried, because they were helping me, after all.

 

But I was really on automatic control.

'Foyle's Philavery: a study of unusual words'.

Oh, no. OH, NO!

And I thought, as we clanged up the lift

'An exclamation mark -

This book is my exclamation mark

For March, 2018.'

 

It's at my bedside, waiting.

Hilarious to be so hooked!

By a book!