But first… a confession.

This blog was never meant to be about me.

It was supposed to be about books. Or the bookshop. Or something... literary. But honestly—how much can you actually write about a used bookshop before you start repeating yourself?

The whole thing started behind my back. I was out appraising a collection of Wilbur Smiths in Parkmore when Steve—our resident code wizard—was poking around on Semrush and viewing our SEO metrics. He told Paul that we’d rank higher on Google if we published a blog at least once a week.

Apparently, Google’s search weighting criteria (that’s the technical term—write it down) keeps shifting like the T&Cs of Vitality. Or eBucks. Or toddlers. And in the latest iteration of the almighty Algorithm, “unique, creative content” is the new golden goose.

So Steve turned to Paul and said, “We need someone to write weekly blogs.”

Paul—without looking up—probably sipping rooibos and arranging spreadsheets by font weight—said, “I can write maybe three lines about the bookshop.”

We’re a used bookshop.
We aim to find the equilibrium between price and quality.
We have roughly 8,000 books online at any given time, with a stock accuracy of 99.3%.

Nobel Prize stuff.

So naturally, they decided I would write it. Convicted in absentia—that’s the term, I believe—when a prisoner is sentenced while not even in the room.

I came back from the book appraisal to the full-blown Bro-code Wingman Ambush Routine™.

Neither of them acknowledged my presence. They talked to each other across the depot as if I just happened to be casually overhearing.

• Steve: “Our onsite SEO is already rated A, but if we added creative content we could push to A+...”
• Paul: “Like... maybe a blog post?”
• Steve: “Yes. A blog post would be best. Around 1000 words. Four or five a month. Add a backlink or two. Use specific SEO keywords in the body text...”
• Paul: “Claire, didn’t you once write a blog for a women’s magazine?”
• Me: “Once. Three years ago. About anxiety in children in a post-COVID world.”
• Steve: “So maybe now you could write about running a bookshop?”
• Paul: “You’re so creative and it could be... therapeutic.”
  (Translation: Therapeutic = unpaid. Creative = emotional labour.)
• Steve: “I’ll send you a keyword list. You’ll need to use the phrase ‘used bookshop’ at least four times, and at least once in the first paragraph if we want to rank.”
• Paul: “I’d offer to help, but you know I am a man of few words.”
• Steve: “Is that a Paul Simon lyric?”
• Me: “No, Moses. And that’s not exactly what he said.”
• Steve: “Oh. I wasn’t very attentive in Bible study.”
• Paul: “Think about it, Claire. You’re passionate, Claire. You’re eloquent. In fact, you’re perfect for it.”
  (Translation: Passionate = overly dramatic. Eloquent = chronic oversharer. Perfect = we’ve already decided that you’re doing it.)

Sure enough—

Steve: “I’ve already emailed you the keywords.”

And so, the blog was born. And somehow, yes, it’s become a little bit about me. Because running a used bookshop is beautiful, messy, ridiculous work—and sometimes the only way to make sense of it is by writing it down.

And because the internet never sleeps—and neither do my readers—you’ve started sending in questions. Thoughtful ones. Weird ones. Occasionally medical ones. So today, I thought I’d answer a few.

From Steven (over WhatsApp):

“I'm also glad that you didn't stay dead and were able to get that R11 flight. Looking forward to what you might find on your travels. 🤓”

Thank you, Steven. It honestly means a lot that you care — I’m hopeful we’ll dig up some real bookish treasures in the Cape. (Preferably ones that don’t smell like old mothballs and heartbreak.)

Also, your kindness deserves a little something—so we’ll be throwing in a small free gift with your next order. I’ve added a note on your profile to make sure it happens. You’ve earned it.

From Diane from Namibia (via WhatsApp):

“By the way, I'm married to an engineer too... say no more! 😂”

Diane. Soul sister. I see you. I hear you. I silently toast you with my third cup of coffee while trying to explain to Paul why “emotional bandwidth” is not a measurable KPI.

Your messages always crack me up—and if you ever want to guest blog, the floor is yours. Truly. Our shared struggle is real. I just hope that if you ever fainted from excitement while unboxing a book haul, Mr Diane would hang up the phone and come check on you—ideally before rebooting the router.

Also, on a semi-related note: I think it may be time to gently restrict Paul’s access to the ReadMatter WhatsApp account. He recently replied to you, and bless him, responded with all the energy of an invoice. You came in with sparkle and emojis and joy—and Paul replied like he was confirming receipt of a municipal statement. We love him. But he engages with customers the same way he engages with birthday cards: sparingly, and only when necessary.

From Lynette (via the ReadMatter inbox):

“What does ‘emotionally unreadable in a completely dependable way’ mean?”

Ah. Yes. That line was about Paul. My German husband. Well—not by birth. He’s second-generation South African, but raised with a distinctly German sensibility. Precision is his love language. He believes that arriving early is just as inappropriate as arriving late (both are deviations from The Time). He eats apple sauce with chicken; files his tax return on the 1st of July.

What it means is: I could crash my car while texting (I won’t, but could)—and Paul would say, “Okay. You can use the van while we sort it out” as calmly as if I’d asked him to bring milk. No judgement. No lecture. No raised voice. Just quiet, steady problem-solving and the knowledge that I never have to lie about being sideswiped by a rogue, ghostlike truck with no number plate.

He’s the kind of person who makes you feel safe being you.
(Even if “you” is a sleep-deprived woman who once labeled a box of Terry Pratchett books “Canned Goods” by mistake.)

From Carole from Springs:

“What does the name ‘ReadMatter’ actually mean?”

Carole. Excellent question. Strap in.

We originally wanted something like the English version of “Leesstof”—which is just a lovely Afrikaans word for reading material. So naturally, we thought: ReadingMaterial.co.za.

Except… no. Too clunky. Too long. Too hard to say out loud when you're panicking at the PostNet counter.

Studies (and Paul) say shorter names are more memorable. So my smart friend Casey—yes, the same one who used to sign the university attendance register for me when I was late—suggested shortening it to Read.

Why? Because “read” is one of those charming English words that means two things. You can read a book (present tense), or trade in your old read books (past tense, pronounced “red”). Cute, right?

But ReadMaterial still sounded like something a school might fax to you before exams. So material became matter. Like in chemistry. You know—solids, liquids, gasses… books.

Paul, in full engineer mode, quickly pointed out:

“Matter also sounds like ‘matters.’”

As in: Reading Matters. And so does quality. And customer service. And honesty.

So ReadMatter was born. A little pun, a little science, and a whole lot of love for words.

From Moira from Bellville on a Facebook DM:

“How do you handle the pressure? Do you take any anti-anxiety meds?”

No, Moira. It’s just very strong coffee and unresolved control issues.

Also, the knowledge that every time something goes horribly wrong at ReadMatter, it becomes content. Courier delivers a box of books to the post office in Lichtenburg instead of to Michelle in Lyndhurst? Blog post. Accidentally sell a book we don’t have? Blog post. Almost die tripping over Zoe’s food bowl? (Not yet written, but just you wait.)

Paul was right – the blog has become therapeutic. An outlet where I can express myself, vent, be heard and—ironically—the person I vent about most is Paul. Not that he reads it. But my mother does. And she did confront him (see below).

From Wendy from Port Shepstone via email:

“Do you ever think you’re oversharing?”

Wendy. This is the internet.
Oversharing is the point.

From Johann (over WhatsApp):

“I am a doctor and I love your blogs, but I would strongly advise against the over-consumption of caffeine.”

Johann, thank you—for both your medical concern and your excellent taste in blogs.

And listen, I get it. Really, I do. But here’s the thing: I don’t drink coffee. I mainline it.

If it came in IV form, I’d be first in line, arm out, veins prepped. At this point, my bloodstream is roughly 78% arabica.

I run a used bookshop, a blog, a household, and a relationship with a man who refers to emotional conversations as “system updates.” Also, I once had to explain to a customer why their copy of The Secret was not, in fact, a limited edition because the barcode was upside down.

So yes. Caffeine. Non-negotiable.

But I appreciate your professional opinion—and if I ever do scale back, I promise you’ll be the first to know. 

Further from Johann:

“You may find that your fall and ‘out-death-experience’ was linked to caffeine-related vasoconstriction, postural hypotension, or even a transient tachyarrhythmia.”

It is entirely possible that my dramatic collapse in Bin H3 had less to do with spiritual awakening and more to do with drinking four cups of coffee and walking around in pumps with questionable grip.

“Claire was high on caffeine and misjudged a shelf bracket” just doesn’t have the same existential gravitas as “Claire saw the light, briefly, and Zoe sat on her back like a weighted blanket.”

Like I said iIf I do decide to cut back, you’ll be the first to know. Though I suspect the headline will read: “Claire Develops Mild Personality. Staff Concerned.”

From my mother Sylvia (to Paul via WhatsApp, 11:42pm, no emoji):

“Paul, I’ve just read Claire’s latest blog. I don’t think you are meeting her emotional needs. She’s clearly crying out for support. You need to talk to her. Properly. Not with spreadsheets. And don’t just say ‘noted.’ That is not a response, Paul. That is a status update. Please make more of an effort. You are her husband, not her HR manager.”

Paul (11:43pm): “Thanks, Sylvia. Noted.”

I see what you did there, Paul. I'll deal with my mom. Please just ignore her.

Claire (7:11am, with a long sigh typed before hitting send):
“Mom, my marriage is fine. Please—we’ve discussed this numerous times. Paul expresses love through acts of service. Like backing up my laptop. Or re-ordering printer labels long before we run out. Tell Dad I say hi.”

In conclusion…

If you've made it this far through caffeine-fuelled oversharing, unsolicited medical diagnoses, and maternal interventions—you now understand what this blog really is: part therapy, part documentation, part love letter to the delightful, dysfunctional madness that is running a used bookshop.

It was never meant to be about me.
And yet, somehow, it always is.

If you’ve got more questions—about the shop, the books, Paul’s emotional availability, Steve’s actual availability (where are all the single ladies?), or Zoe’s favourite sleeping spot—send them in. I’ll answer. Eventually. Possibly with footnotes.

And to the Google algorithm that started all this:
I hope you're happy.
Steve says we’ve finally hit an A+ rating.
Paul says I’ve exceeded word count.
I say... this was cheaper than therapy.

With love, bubble wrap, and a blood-caffeine level considered illegal in most countries and reckless by Johann,
Claire