Bookshops

I don’t know what it is about the general populous that means walking into a bookshop dressed in leather – black, covered by a long coat – black, inspires distasteful glances and even tuts. It’s almost enough to hurt a woman’s feelings.

Almost.

Of course the tuts of disgust are soon replaced by mildly discontented gasps and stifled screams at the sight of my revolvers sat in their holsters.

People really need to make up their minds, either fear, loathing or disgust. To keep changing between them is just unfair. For some reason the only person that currently seems to have his mind made up about me is one Frederick Barlow and his opinion of me is just plain wrong.

I discovered his current mind set quite by accident. Two days ago, a rather large vase of flowers may have found itself making an unexpected journey out of the window onto the bonnet of a certain person's car...yes the vase and flowers were from the same person...and yes they were handed to me with a proposition of dinner and dancing.

Granted if I was a normal human being, I would have melted and fallen into his arms as he apparently expected me to. Strangely enough this didn't happen. Instead he decided to tell me what a wonderful person I was...when you end up being described as a gentle, kind, compassionate person and there is still dried blood in your hair from where you shot someone not an hour earlier, you begin to wonder about the sanity levels of the person in front of you.

There are times when there are small amounts of hope for the human race...on days like today...Fred Barlow is the greatest hope for them...so really they're all doomed.