Here’s one from my archive. This is a story about a bookseller who is struggling to keep up with her younger colleagues. Her heart is in the right place…

Becky made the correct decision. It was the right thing to do. There was no other course of action available to her. It’s what I would have counselled her to do; and in her shoes, I would have done the same. It is important that Nesbitt’s is the kind of place where colleagues can work without fear of being subject to inappropriate and/or offensive language and behaviour. So there are no hard feelings and no mitigating circumstances. It is what it is and what it is is entirely my own fault.

We have a young and diverse team and I have always believed it was important that everyone feels included. We’ve done go-karting, paintball and cooking classes. We’ve been to the theatre; we go out for drinks and meals; and we have a reading group, which you would expect for a book shop. We have a team forum every month where problems can be aired, anonymously if required. Appropriate language is often on the agenda, but then so is the rota, and cleanliness of the staff room. What I have learned and what I hope all of the team has learned is to be consistently awake to the needs and feelings of others. Or, as my mother would have put it, to be polite and considerate at all times.

When I arrived at Nesbitt’s with my MA and a head filled with dreams, I was au fair with which words you could and could not say. Twenty years later I discovered that some of the words which we would never speak are now used habitually – behind the scenes, not on the shop floor – by people from London and at least some parts of Wales. At the go-karting, for example, the winner of a heat was a lucky this or spawny that and if, through no fault of your own, you happened to drive slowly or accidentally drift out of your lane then you would be invited to get out of the way you effing you-know-what. That was what is known as banter, which is something you have to learn to deal with. And anyway, how is it that they know how to drive? None of us had a licence at their age; and now they inquire about car parking when you ask if they have any questions at the end of a job interview.

My favourite activity, which was also my idea, was the cookery class. Angelica Ferrari, the fabulous author of Italian Food for Millennials and Beginners, was an inspiration. I understand now that after she judged my caponata to be the best of the bunch, it was not appropriate to hug her. Not for so long. She didn’t complain, but it was raised anonymously and retrospectively and I was forced to admit that at the time I was overcome, having at last excelled at something after the humiliations of the go-karting and paintball. If I had my time again, I would have nodded politely and perhaps attempted a (perish the thought) fist pump with whoever was cooking next to me. When the photos appeared on Nesbitt’s Facebook page, to which even I have access, I established what IMHO means, although IMHO it should really be IMPAUO – I’ll admit it doesn’t roll off the tongue in quite the same way – because some opinions are personal and unchallengeable. As I have learned, more than once, to my cost.

Should one wait for someone to open a door or should one open it for them? Do not assume that the person walking towards you will appreciate you holding it open, even though sometimes they will. And I want to state for the record that I have never uttered a homophobic word in my life.

Everyone was impressed by how many customers commented upon and liked the photos from the cookery class. Quite a few of our regulars, with whom I am on first name terms, wrote nice messages under the photo of me and my victorious caponata. Angelica liked the one of us standing side by side, with clear space between us. Her book enjoyed a position towards the top of our non-fiction chart for three months and she sent us a thank you card containing a message to keep on cooking. Was it wrong of me to take that as personal encouragement? I didn’t go out of my way to find her number and I only texted her twice. The second message was simply a repeat of the first.

The thing about bookshops is that they attract their fair share of eccentrics. We’ve had a regular contingent of Goths behind and in front of the cash desk and we once had a punk with pink hair. Now everyone has pink hair, but then it meant something. I’m proud that Nesbitt’s stands on the high street like the Statue of Liberty, welcoming the huddled masses – and it’s surprising how many bookshop customers huddle – and we collect quite a lot of wretched refuse by the shop door overnight; not to mention the homeless. There’s a man called Geoff who sleeps in the doorway and I buy him tea and a bacon butty twice a week. In the winter, when I’m opening up, I let him in the back to thaw out and use the loo. He asked me to pass on a message that he doesn’t like coffee and leftover croissant, but when I raised it at the forum I was shouted down for being uncharitable. Last week I had to buy him a fresh cuppa after Science Fiction and Fantasy Jack threw some coppers into the one I’d given him earlier. I’m sure he appreciates the money, but what these young people don’t seem to understand is that it is just as important, and philanthropic, to stop and chat every now and then. IMHO.

The suggestions box was another idea of mine and it was one that I was happy to organise. Talk about opening the floodgates; and after the deluge, nada. At first there was an even split between doodles, well-intentioned messages and downright filth. I gave the serious suggestions a proper airing, and several sensible changes were made to the shop, including a Mindfulness subsection at the bottom of Health and Wellbeing and an Up-Lit table to the right of the front door. We also tweaked the rota to ensure that no-one opened or closed on their own and we pushed our Sunday opening time forward by half an hour to accommodate changes to the bus timetable. I didn’t welcome the proposal to introduce an Assistant Manager for each floor, but no one could have accused me of not following the correct protocols before it was rejected at our weekly management meeting. It’s not that I felt insecure in my position, but as Nesbitt’s sole and long-standing Assistant Manager I had a duty to the store beyond the kind of naked careerism writ large in some of the notes that appeared in my box. They have no staying power, these kids: no sooner are they up than they are off to pastures new. What is wrong with loyalty and being part of something bigger than your own ambitions? Bookshops play a vital role in the community and those of us who intend to stick around understand the value of being part of that contribution.

Take the local primary schools, for example: St. Cecilia’s and Park End bring classes to the shop each term to take part in a programme of events conceived by yours truly. I don’t get involved in a hands-on way with the visits, other than setting up, welcoming them as they come through the door and clearing up after they’ve gone. I used to host the shop tour and introduce our guest authors, but since the incident with that disruptive child I have been encouraged to let some of the junior booksellers work with the children. Why the mother had to come to the shop I will never know. The teacher admitted at the time that he should have explained that the boy did not like to be touched and would not respond well to being shouted at, but how else would we have got him to keep quiet? My concern at the time was for the rest of the class and the author who was battling through the noise, as recorded in my apology. But discipline and behaviour is the responsibility of an – here’s that word again – appropriate adult and I know now to leave well alone.

Dealing with the younger staff isn’t too different to working with children: herding cats is what springs to mind. I can, of course, recall what life was like at that tender age, and one of the things I remember is that your instinct tells you that you are the first generation ever to be young; the first to feel an overwhelming entitlement to the future, as well as to the here and now; and that you are pioneers, charting the course of human history and steering through the detritus that is the middle and old-aged. You have to let them make their own mistakes and you literally can’t tell them what to do. Well, not any more. How then, to impart the benefit of your experience, or to provide staff training and career development without being dismissed as condescending, out of touch or simply wrong? The best one can do is to lead by example, offer feedback only when requested and provide an environment of excellence in which the next generation can flourish.

So I take morale seriously and after the success of the cooking class I campaigned for a cake-off. Who doesn’t like cake? It’s inclusive, inexpensive and nowadays it is free from the burden of gender stereotyping. What swung it in the end – and I’m proud of this – was my proposition that we use exclusively vegan ingredients and that the leftovers were distributed to the homeless and at the day centre for dementia sufferers. Geoff thought it was a fantastic idea, although given his liking for bacon rolls I didn’t mention the plant-based stipulation. After a higher uptake than expected, I spread the cake-off over two days and altered the rota to include, as a one-off, an extended afternoon tea break for blind tasting sessions. Having volunteered to supervise, I spent the first session slicing cake, pouring tea and jotting down marks out of ten; and, where relevant, constructive comments. At the end of Cake-Off Day One we put whatever was remaining into tins and left a slice of lemon drizzle in a lunchbox on the doorstep for Geoff.

Day Two was my day off, but with nothing else planned I came in after lunch to resume my responsibilities as organiser and invigilator. What has been forgotten in all the brouhaha is that there was a queue to be first in for the second round of tasting what the team was now calling Nesbitt Nibbles. Perhaps it was the sugar, but there was an overwhelming atmosphere of warmth and giddiness in the staff room like I had not experienced in my two decades in the bookshop. I have never felt as connected to the team as in the opening hour of Day Two. When Sci-Fi Jack, or J as he prefers, took his seat, I put festering enmity to one side as I plated up his first Nibble. He shovelled it into his mouth – I am resisting the temptation to use the word cakehole – and swallowed with barely a chew. How could he possibly have given it such a high score? He was adamant it was a nine out of ten and the second slice, having been subject to the same treatment, was allotted a ‘strong eight’. Branwen from Natural History and Life Sciences giggled from the next seat and I realised that she was the reason for his performance. She was smiling when she told him he was a greedy so and so, using one of those words shunned by my generation. Despite my seniority, and a feeling that I should perhaps point out her inappropriate language, I let it go; and in pursuit of fellowship I passed him his third portion with some jocular banter of my own. ‘Get that down you, you greedy c___,’ I said, noticing that the sample in question was my Cake-Off entry. He screwed up his face and spat it out, raining crumbs and cream all over my favourite top. And that was when I slapped him in the face.

The pavement protest wasn’t planned. I hadn’t exactly forgotten that I had been dismissed, but the day after the meeting with Becky and Mr. Nesbitt, I jumped out of bed and dressed as usual. I squeezed past the books in the hall and ate my slice of toast and marmalade while listening to Thought for the Day. I caught the eight-fifteen bus into town and as there was no queue at Martinelli’s I nipped in for Geoff’s breakfast. When I arrived at the shop, Geoff was folding his cardboard and didn’t see me at first. I stood in front of him with his tea in one hand and sandwich in the other. He turned around and shook himself like a dog that has been in a canal. ‘Are you a ghost?’ he asked.

Becky followed the disciplinary procedure to the letter. She did everything by the book, which incidentally I wrote. Colleagues have been known to indulge in playful jostling and gentle punches to the upper arm, but there’s no doubting that a slap in the face is gross misconduct. The thing about gross misconduct is that previous good behaviour counts for nothing, not in my book; and I don’t suppose it would in anyone else’s for that matter. And yet, wouldn’t it be better to show how much the job means to you and to express your contrition? I couldn’t let all of my working life disappear without a fight and after I was sent home I set to work on a document detailing my achievements at Nesbitt’s. It was in Becky’s Inbox before she left for work the next day. I copied in Mr. Nesbitt, long-retired but still, I hoped, an ally of sorts. He put in an appearance at my dismissal meeting.

News of my departure reached Geoff less than three hours after Mr. Nesbitt had agreed with Becky that despite everything I had done for the shop, this time they would have to let me go. It wasn’t so much about setting an example – oh, the irony – as showing the staff that there was a right way and a wrong way to behave. I imagine they wouldn’t view seeking out Geoff and crowing about getting me sacked as the right way to behave, but that is what Jack did as soon as his shift finished after the announcement was made. Geoff told me that he swung a punch at my antagonist and although I felt obliged to point out that we had had more than enough violence already, how could I be anything but pleased that at least one person was on my side? And besides, it didn’t connect: by that time of day, Geoff will have been away with the fairies and not the most nimble of pugilists.

Mornings, though, Geoff is sober. He pointed out that although I no longer had the keys to Nesbitt’s, I could enter along with everyone else when the shop opened. I could, if I wished, spend the morning in the Science Fiction and Fantasy department. I could sit and watch the stock being shelved at a snail’s pace; I could observe customers being ignored; I could share my opinions with those customers about how poorly represented classic Science Fiction is at Nesbitt’s; all this, and more, I could do without being accused of harassment. Unfortunately, I was accused of harassment and was ushered out of the shop shortly before lunch. For the sake of Nesbitt’s, I chose not to make a scene. Back on the street, however, I discovered that instead of doing his usual disappearing act, Geoff had sourced a marker pen and was making a scene of his own. Standing to the side of the main window and next to the cycle rack, he was holding one of his sheets of cardboard, on which he had written, in quivering upper case, FREE THE NESBITT’S ONE. And that was the opening salvo in the pavement protest.

I’m fine with being on my feet all day. That’s how it is, working in shops; and, as it turns out, occupying the space outside of one. You come to recognise the passersby. They’re just like customers; in fact, many of them are customers, or ex-customers. It pays to be creative with your message and not to be too aggressive or hectoring. Reinstate Rosie was popular; as was Please, Please, Please Give me a Second Chance (we needed two pieces of cardboard for that one). Chanting doesn’t work; silent and dignified is best and after a bit of trial and error that is how we played it. Standing in the rain elicits sympathy and solidarity, but people only stop when the sun is shining or the police are trying to persuade you to move on. I never caused a nuisance and Geoff was no more trouble than before, so I refused to move on. I haven’t missed a day for three months. A man from The Messenger interviewed me four days in. He invited me to put my side of the story, although Nesbitt’s had refused to comment and I wasn’t so much putting my side as telling the story. When the paper came out much of the coverage was favourable, and even though the editorial I had suggested – let bygones be bygones was the tone I was after – did not appear, the article led to more support on the pavement and a rather delicious run of baked goods. I hadn’t mentioned the Cake-Off, so it was a coincidence, nothing more. Geoff loved the rum-infused fruit cake that Mrs. Whittaker brought along. I could tell he was coveting the tin it came in, but she wanted that back. She offered to lead a delegation into the store to demand Becky give me my job back, but I had faith that Mr. Nesbitt at least would see sense and reconsider his decision.

We are still outside the shop. After the schoolboy’s mother went to The Messenger, supporters stopped bringing food. Geoff is too polite to say, but I think he’s had enough. He sticks around for the first hour, but after that he wanders off. He’s back to holding up his old sign – the one about him being a Falklands veteran – which is understandable given that two weeks ago I told him I would have to stop paying him for his time. There’s a unit come up for rent in the Corner Arcade at the end of Siddle Street. I have twenty years of savings and twenty-plus years of stock. I have never recycled or donated a book. Mum said nothing good would ever come of hoarding, but as I pointed out, one man’s (or person’s) hoarder is another’s collector. I have novels of every genre and publications on every conceivable subject. I have a shelf’s worth of books which evangelise the joys of decluttering. What would you do if you tripped over a Marie Kondo and landed face down next to a volume entitled When They Go Low, We Go High? And some people have gone very low on social media. But I have my defenders. I don’t agree with the people who say if we were still allowed to hit children the boy wouldn’t have been making trouble in the first place. I was tempted to jump in and restate my case that I was only holding him by the shoulders and barely shook him, but at the last minute I remembered to walk away from the screen. It was even more difficult not to publicly concur with those who argued that Sci-Fi Jack deserved a slap. How did they find out about that? What I do know for sure is that Rosie’s Reads will open with a comprehensive range of second-hand books, all in pristine condition. We will host visiting authors and will welcome schools with open arms. We will make space available for writers’ groups. Our first day’s takings will be donated to the homeless, who will be unable to sleep in our doorway because the arcade is shuttered every night at seven. Geoff will, however, have the pick of our cardboard. In time, I hope to attract some of the young people from Nesbitt’s because even after everything that has happened there are no hard feelings and I know I have so much to learn from them.