I found the shelves in a Valencia junk shop between a headless mannequin and an exercise bike. Pine, old varnish, three bowed shelves. I measured, didn’t write the numbers down, and trusted my memory. Mistake one.
They were two centimetres too big for the boot. The owner tied it half-shut with twine. I drove home very slowly. Marina walked the last stretch because the street is narrow and my nerves weren’t helping.
In the room, the fit was wrong in a different way: shorter than the wall I’d planned and taller than the bit without a socket. We tried left, right, and “in front of the plug.” I shaved a sliver off the skirting and accepted the socket would live behind hardbacks.
The case leaned. I don’t trust tall furniture that isn’t anchored, so I dug out two brackets and “universal” wall plugs that don’t love Spanish brick. First drill bit screamed; the second grabbed, then found a hollow. Vacuum the hole, then the plug. We cinched the top to the wall and it straightened.
For the bowed shelves, I flipped them curve-up and screwed slim battens underneath. Not pretty, just enough to stop drift.
Then books. I cleared the plant-stand-turned-table and the box by the bed and started a first pass. Paperbacks left, hardbacks right, odd sizes flat.
Care rules I try to follow:
- Don’t jam them. Leave a finger of air.
- Keep spines out of sun; it bleaches fast.
- Support tall hardbacks with a bookend or a firm neighbour.
- Keep the bottom shelf off the floor. Tile holds cold and damp.
- Dust jackets: wipe, don’t scrub. If fragile, leave it be.
Humidity swings here. Windows early and late, nothing pressed to exterior walls, a small fan now and then. Any book with a suspect smell sits out for 24 hours. If it’s still off, it doesn’t join the shelf.
I tried alphabetical. It felt dead. I dropped colour after a minute. I landed on clusters I can find without thinking: travel with odd memoirs, poetry near short novels, Spanish at eye level so I actually reach for it. Reference low, heavy.
To avoid losing things, I wrote A1, A2, etc., inside the case where only I’ll see it. That turns “somewhere by my shoulder” into “A3, third from the right.” When someone borrows a book, their name goes on an index card in that gap. The shoebox of cards is starting to earn its place.
By halfway, the room sounded different—less echo, more dull thud. The box by the bed is nearly empty; the stand has space again. The case looks like it belongs.
Next time I’d:
- Photograph the tape measure.
- Bring a strap for the boot.
- Expect hollow sections in the wall and have extra bits.
- Buy brackets before the mood dies.
I’d still:
- Flip bowed shelves and add cleats.
- Keep the bottom shelf off the floor.
- Fill slowly; let the layout settle.
- Quarantine anything that smells wrong.
When I stepped back, Marina tapped the top edge, checked the anchors, and said, “Now we can buy more mistakes.” That counts as permission.
