Catherine Holling

Today I visited a St Vincent De Paul Op Shop. My friend bungled me in so she could get a costume for the local theatre production. While she rummaged through the clothes, I scoured the book shelf. Sometimes the most wonderful out of print novels turn up in such places. Sadly, today it was just pulp fiction.

Some of the authors were okay; I could’ve easily bought a couple of books. But there was an uncomfortable sense about something? Not sadness . . . . emptiness perhaps?