Bookshops are meant to be intelligent places. That, at least, is the theory, one which Dan Brown and Marian Keyes have done their level best to disprove. A bookshop should be the sort of place in which people may converse intelligently about philosophy, politics, music and, well, books. It should be a place for thought, contemplation; for pondering, to borrow a phrase, life, the universe and everything.
Perhaps my view of the world is idealised and old fashioned, perhaps I long for the days when composers and philosophers would sit around in cafes in Vienna and discuss intelligent things. But, quite frankly:
This is whack.
Who wants to listen to ABBA in a bookshop? Or the Village People? Why, when I am browsing for a book, would I want to listen to Little River Band whining at me? Surely something quiet and subdued would be more appropriate, like Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf, or some freakin Mozart. But no, my manager insists not only on playing total crap in the store, but also on turning the volume all the way up, so that when you stand under a speaker you feel like you're at Christmas in the Park. In HELL. Because only there would Phil Collins, ABBA and Little River Band all play in the same concert.
Also, the one time I get to put Edith Piaf on, despite the fact that loads of people comment on how much they love it, I have to take it out, because some idiotic woman thinks that it's unpatriotic. Cause apparently, not only are we living in Nazi Germany, or Texas or somewhere, but we're also still pissed at the French over the rainbow warrior. And apparently Edith Piaf was one of the agents who snuck onto the boat (despite the fact that she was dead long before the rainbow warrior).
Okay. Rant over. But seriously, why even bother with music in a bookshop? It just makes the sales people cranky and the weird customers angry.