A bit of the old routine

Eccentrics, like many people living on the margins, often have well rehearsed patter in order to suck strangers into a conversation. I once saw a fine example of this in Judd Books, the second-hand book shop in Bloomsbury. During a quiet afternoon, in stepped a man whose favourite pastime was to raise a little chaos in the lives of shopkeepers. He sported the 'old north London hippy' look - a taller, brunette version of Phil Davis' character in High Hopes. 

Phil Davis, left, pointing in High Hopes

The man placed several overflowing carrier bags on the floor and prepared to engage the attention of the guy behind the counter. Judd Books is piled high with stock and has a loyal following among scruffy genteel scholars, so the Phil Davis character was not out of place. He did however break a key unspoken rule: no talking to anyone. The clientele is there to waste an afternoon via some quiet browsing: only American tourists actually try to discuss literature with the booksellers.

In a high, bright voice he asked, "Is that for sale?"

The bookseller looked up from his paper, "Is what for sale?"

[Pointing] "That there, to your left."

And here the game began. The counter is itself drowning under books, mainly smaller novelty publications, guides to the local area and so on. Without actually naming the item he wanted, and standing far enough back so he couldn't touch anything, 'Phil Davis' gleefully lead the bookseller's hand around 100 or so items.

"Down slightly. And to the right ... no back a bit. Up up! Now to the left. No not that one, the other one."

This carried on for several minutes and we all turned round to watch this ballet of pointing and polite frustration.

"You mean the Virginia Woolfs? The maps of Bloomsbury ... um - the postcards?"

"No no - the clock thing."

"Oh these." said the guy behind the counter, holding up a pack of orange paper calendars.

"No" said Phil Davis, this time indicating decisively to bring the show to a close, "this clock."

The clock was a small plastic device sitting on its own by the till.

"It's not for sale I'm afraid. It's the shop's clock."

"Oh that's a shame." And with that he picked up his bags and strolled out onto Marchmont Street. Perhaps his next port of call was the Oddbins next door, where he would spend five minutes finding out if the spare till rolls were available for purchase.