I’ve spent the last couple of Saturdays working in my local library. I love to go there when I want to really concentrate on writing something. I love too the serendipity of finding what I didn’t even know I was looking for when accidentally sat next to an unfamiliar bit of library. These are sacred places.
But today I decided on a change. Decided I’d get the bus down to Liverpool Central Library. The new camera’s not been there yet so is naturally keen on a good look round.
Don’t worry, we are walking towards the library. I’m ‘putting it in context!’
Said by some to be our third Cathedral.
And of course many take that photograph.
They’re librarians and you simply can’t run something like this without them. This is not the bookshelves at the back of an Oxfam. Cheerfully stocked by willing volunteers.
We’ve reached Liverpool’s main Storehouse of our Memories.
Here are also the precious books of our place.
We know know they’ll all be kept open somehow. But we still await details of how. And in some cases, who by. I’m watching carefully as we all are.
And most night’s the library’s open late, unlike the local ones now we have the gift of austerity dumped on us. But on Saturday even here closes at five. So I walk through town to get the bus home.
I go into no shops myself. As ever, I don’t feel the need.
On National Libraries Day, long may they thrive.