between books

Today I took three books back to the bookstore. I had read each one of them; I had liked them somewhat but found much to complain about. In other words, it they were inspiring reads but nothing I would want to keep on my bookshelf to feel good about or brag with. My bookshelf is overflowing anyway.

Is it a sign of recessionary times that I take books back to the store after reading them, you might ask. Not exactly. You know that I get my books almost exclusively from the charity store, giving a little donation (whose magnitude is helpfully suggested on the inner cover of the book) in exchange for a few well-worn pages. I always find that I get the better half of the deal.

So today I went back to donate three books that I had purchased half a year earlier and long since finished reading, unorthodox economic studies that were publishing phenomena but didn't do much for me (Freakonomics, Wisdom of Crowds, The Tipping Point). Oxfam can sell them again – and I have done my part helping the world.

On the way to the bookstore, five minutes from college, I received a phone call from the agency managing my apartment. I had asked them earlier what the protocol is for terminating the lease. Do I have to write or is a call enough? One month before the first of the month, or one month before the day I want to move out?

I had asked these questions tongue-in-cheek. On the one hand, I really wanted to know because I'm considering moving. It is not something I'd do with enthusiasm; there's too much work and expense involved. But there are a few things amiss with my place, a few flaws that make me consider leaving. If they were fixed I would gladly stay.

On the other hand, I wanted to see how the agency reacted, if they'd ask why I wanted to leave, if they'd try to make me stay. With migrant workers leaving the U.K. in droves, the rental market is apparently not as bubblicious as it was two years ago. Nevertheless, the agent disappointed me bitterly. He gave me the information about how to terminate the contract and that was it. No questions, no interest, nothing.

However, today on the phone, he sounded much different. He said he hadn't received my letter yet. Obviously – I hadn't sent it. I haven't even made up my mind yet. I told him that I'm still looking around, whereupon which he wanted to know what I was looking for, and pretty soon we were talking money. He basically asked me how much rent I wanted to pay and, after a few backs and forths, agreed to suggest to the landlord decreasing rent by 75 pounds. I would have to commit for another year.

I haven't made such commitment, and I haven't heard from the landlord, but it would be a sweet deal and perfectly painless. On the other hand, there are still the things that need fixing. Even if the landlord consents to ripping me off less this coming year, I'd probably ask to talk to him, to walk him through the flat and point the things out I don't like and see how receptive he is to my ideas for improvement. Once this is done, I can agree on a new contract – with a substantially decreased rent. How likely that is I don't know. A year ago, such bargaining would have been impossible and got you kicked out in no time. These days, with the property market slowly approaching normalcy, it might just work.

Contemplating my options, I arrived at the Oxfam and handed over the three volumes I was returning. I had just enough time to make a quick round of the shop before I had to head back, but even in the shortness of time I couldn't fail to notice a certain massive tome with a conspicuous cover. Best American Short Stories of the Century contains what the title promises, according to the literary taste of John Updike. The stories are distilled from 85 annual Best American Short Stories collections, of which I already own one. I happily made a little donation and left the store with as much baggage as I had entered it, but with something infinitely more presentable for the shelf.