I originally discovered John Sandoe Books quite unintentionally. I ordered a book about eighteenth-century colour palettes that was featured in a blog that I follow. The bookshop that stocked it was John Sandoe Books, Ltd. I’ve purchased special things from their online catalog ever since.
I rediscovered John Sandoe Books, again, quite by accident, on Tuesday. I wasn’t looking for a bookshop. I’d gone to buy a pair of sneakers/trainers/tennis shoes… whatever you call them… because I’d neglected to pack mine. I glanced down a street before crossing to ensure that nothing on wheels was barrelling my way, and there it was. The bookshop of dreams. Well, of my dreams, anyway.
I have no business buying more books. I came to London to try to sell books, not buy more! But I could not pass by John Sandow Books, Ltd, without going inside.
Oh, I could spend hours and hours… beautiful, seductive, engaging, enticing, promising books! Shelves and shelves of them, whispering the secrets they could share, if you only pick them up and take them home…
I left with a book, of course. Just a little one. Anecdotes of William Hogarth, written by himself. It won’t take up too much space in my suitcase.
I went back to John Sandoe again today. I gave a copy of my book, The Private Misadventures of Nell Nobody, to the lovely man behind the desk, to do what he will with it. Read it, sell it, give it away… he graciously accepted it, and I have the gratification of knowing that, if only for a little while, my book was in the company of millions of others, in the most amazing independent bookshop in London.