There
is an occupation out there somewhere in the world which goes by the name
“personal shopper”. It sounds like an interesting job – fulfilling the
gift-buying obligations of those too wealthy and too busy to do it themselves -
but I’m sure it’s fraught with difficulty. Get it wrong, and it could well be
calamitous.
Book
sellers are not – by any definition – the de
facto personal shoppers of those people who enter their places of business.
We don’t know your friends and family; we don’t know who you are; we certainly
cannot pronounce judgement on our wares as to their suitability as a gift for
your loved ones. Essentially, we are not all-knowing.
After
asking us for something to give to your Aunt Beryl, you will no doubt dismiss
out of hand the first three suggestions which we offer: you will, it
transpires, know your Aunt Beryl better than you think; certainly better than
we do. Most likely, you will suddenly decide, after having wasted an
unthinkable portion of our existences, that what she would like most is a pot
plant, and then you will leave without compensating us for having given you
time to reflect upon the nature of your quest and its outcome. Thanks for
nothing.
While
it may be a bit of an ego-stroke for customers to wander in and assume that we
do possess powers akin to those of God, in the long run it only causes
irritation.
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