This is what a typical day at ReadMatter looks like. And I use the word "typical" the same way one might describe a thunderstorm as "a bit of drizzle." Technically true, but also... no.
We’re up and at it by 7am. Sometimes earlier—depending on how many orders came in overnight, how much coffee I’ve had, and whether or not Zoe (our Airedale Terrier) decided 5:00am was a good time to wake us up, by standing next to the bed, tail thumping against the frame like a drumroll, and attempting to lick our faces into consciousness.
If you think bookshops are all about reading quietly in a sunbeam with a cup of Earl Grey tea, I invite you to witness the sheer chaos of our mornings. Preferably after you’ve had caffeine and a full night of REM sleep.
First order of business? Overnight orders. There are always a few—a 1:08am, a 2:17am, sometimes even a 3:36am "Couldn’t sleep, saw a book I loved in high school, had to have it" kind of order. And honestly? We love those. Of every batch, about 80% of the books are waiting patiently on our own shelves, already catalogued and stickered (by me, obviously). The other 20% come from our ever-patient, slightly eccentric band of marketplace sellers.
Let me explain: our marketplace sellers are not just anyone—they’re a carefully vetted, invite-only bunch. Before being welcomed into the ReadMatter fold, we checked the quality of their books (with the thoroughness of a suspicious librarian) and swore them to uphold our sacred standards: impeccable condition, honest listings, and lightning-fast turnaround times. Only once they passed the test were they invited to list their stock on our site.
They’re real humans—delightfully bookish, mostly night owls, and often with home libraries that make mine look understocked. When you place an order, Steve’s fancy webhook pings them instantly. But let’s be honest—nothing beats the passive-aggressive magic of a WhatsApp that says:
"Morning! Three orders in. You up yet?"
Next up: courier and shipping check-ins. Who made it to the depot? Who’s out for delivery? And—our personal favourite—who somehow ended up in Durban when they were clearly meant to go to Pretoria. (It happens more than you’d think.)
But don’t panic—we usually catch the glitch long before you even realise your parcel went on holiday. Courier hiccups are par for the course. We just deal with them early, thoroughly, and—if necessary—loudly. We are on our couriers like bloodhounds.
Once the shipping chaos is under control (read: temporarily corralled), it’s time to open Outlook and WhatsApp. First coffee in hand—now lukewarm, naturally—I start tackling the mountain of messages. There are customer queries to answer, book requests to forward to our vast network of other booksellers, prices to chase, photos to nudge for. We have access to over 100,000 books that are not on our website—just floating in the ether of supplier spreadsheets, waiting to be summoned. Every request is a little scavenger hunt.
Once, someone asked for a very specific out-of-print Enid Blyton title—and within two hours, we had it secured with a seller in Benoni. (Bookish miracles are real. We believe.)
Then come the book-buying messages. People clearing shelves, moving house, downsizing, decluttering, or just wanting a little extra cash. We go through each offer one by one—ask for photos, assess condition, calculate offers (with a little AI help), check for duplicates.
It’s a lot of back and forth, but it’s also one of the most meaningful things we do: giving books a second (or third) chance at love.
By 8am, it’s time for the first PUDO drop-off—and the school run. This run usually includes the previous day’s orders, packed late last night or in the wee hours of the morning. Our nearest locker can barely keep up with our volume, so we’ve developed a system: one drop at 8am, another around lunchtime.
We monitor the PUDO app like hawks. The moment the first batch shows as collected, we know the locker’s temporarily empty—and it’s go-time all over again: printing waybills, bubble-wrapping like mad, and praying the tape dispenser doesn’t jam.
Some days, we do a third run. Occasionally, we hit multiple lockers. Once, gloriously, we hit three in one morning.
Zero regrets. Zero normalcy.
It’s 10am in Joburg, which means it’s 16:30 in Osaka, Japan—and a WhatsApp pings from a +81 number. It’s a customer over there, desperately trying to get their hands on two books we’ve listed on the site. I love these messages. They’re such a lovely reminder that, even though we’re a small, very local bookshop operating out of chaotic little depots in Joburg, we are—somehow—also global. (Thank you, internet. Please never crash.)
International shipping, though, is a beast. One I have zero patience for and even less talent in managing. So I immediately forward it to Paul, who—aside from being one of the calmest people I know—has a cousin at DHL and speaks fluent customs paperwork. This is the same man who once got a book delivered to a farm in rural Iceland, so when it comes to logistics miracles, I don’t question him. I just step aside and say, "Good luck."
Meanwhile, I have three book appraisal appointments on the calendar for the morning: Rosebank, Victory Park, and Senderwood. Not exactly next door to each other, but I chuck them all into Waze and let the app plot a course. It gives me a route that just so happens to pass Motherland Coffee. I take this as divine intervention. I grab my re-usable bamboo cup. Let’s do this.
Stop one: Rosebank. It’s a deceased estate, which always changes the tone. You go in gently. Quietly. There’s something reverent about being invited to look through someone’s lifelong reading. I take photos silently, make soft small talk, and then politely excuse myself, explaining that I’ll need to cross-reference the books in our system and send a quote later. I don’t believe in rushing decisions with collections like this. Books are emotional. Pricing them should be respectful.
Next up: Victory Park. Easier. We’d already spoken on WhatsApp and I’d seen the photos, so this is more of a formality—I just wanted to double-check the condition in person. Pictures can hide all sorts of sins: margin notes, water stains, torn spines, or that dreaded fluorescent highlighter. But this lot? Immaculate. I hand over the cash, we load up the boot and the back seat, and I drive off with that oddly satisfying feeling of turning clutter into future joy for someone else.
And then... Senderwood. The furthest point on the map, and also the one I nearly skipped. I sit in the car. I hesitate. The morning’s been long, the car is full, and the number of unread emails in my inbox is making my left eye twitch. But something about this one stuck with me. Maybe it was the mention of a vintage Penguin Classics box set. Maybe it’s my relentless need for completeness. Or maybe it’s just the extra shot in my flat white.
Either way, I head to Senderwood.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this job, it’s this: the best finds usually happen just after you think you’re too tired to keep going.
By 1:30pm, I’m back from Senderwood with a small bag of weathered, clothbound classics. These won’t even touch the website. There’s already a customer waiting—someone who wishlisted these titles ages ago and has been (somewhat impatiently) holding their breath since I messaged yesterday with a cryptic: "I think I might have something for you." I shoot off a quick WhatsApp: They’re here. You’re going to love them.
Meanwhile, the Shopify ka-ching hasn’t stopped. It’s Pavlovian now. I hear it in my dreams.
You’d think that by 2pm, the pace would slow down. A little lull. A moment to chew with both hands, maybe. But no. Lunch today was a granola bar eaten one-handed in the car, somewhere between Senderwood and sanity. And by 2pm, we are right back in it.
The Victory Park haul gets unloaded from the boot—and at least two paperbacks already marked with neon Post-Its that say things like “CLAIRE PROMISED THIS TO LISA” or “DO NOT LOSE THIS.” These Post-Its are sacred. I don’t care if it’s the apocalypse—if a book has a Post-It, it goes nowhere until its rightful reader comes to claim it.
At exactly 2pm, our driver Vusi heads out with the day’s collection list. 2pm is our daily cut-off for orders coming from our storage facilities and marketplace sellers to be collected same day. He’s off to fetch orders from our marketplace sellers and secret storage depots—where books live in perfectly labelled boxes, alphabetised and arranged with the kind of obsessive precision only book people understand. (I’ve been told it’s “a little intense.” I call it efficient.)
Back at the shop, we dive into our 3pm “stand-up,” which is neither formal nor particularly stand-uppy. Think: semi-circle of tired humans, Zoe the Airedale curled into a logistical loaf on the floor, and me clutching a notebook with at least three coffee stains on it. Present: Paul (energised), one or two temps (mildly alarmed), and Steve, our developer, who joins via Zoom from a dark room lit only by three screens and what I assume is a half-eaten bowl of cereal.
Steve launches into geek mode—words like webhook, API, and inventory sync start flying. I nod supportively while my brain quietly leaves the room and makes a grocery list. I need a tin of chopped tomatoes. Steve something about a new integration for syncing stock across our website and Bobshop. It sounds great. I also need fresh basil. I’ll be honest—I zoned out somewhere around “token refresh.”
Paul, mercifully, speaks human. He’s up next and takes us through the courier roundup in his usual F1 commentary tone, flipping through a pile of signed waybills like they’re podium finishes.
- Taking gold this morning: Mbusi from Internet Express, who screeched to a stop outside our driveway at exactly 8:43am to collect our Internet Express and BobBox orders. A flawless pitstop. No notes.
- Silver medal: Ramagopka from Fastway, who arrived at 9:12 with that unmistakable “please don’t make me carry a piano today” look in his eyes. He leaves with 3 Stock 5 boxes and 2 stock 4 boxes and a milk-crate of flyer bags.
- Bronze (but bless him): Albert from RAM, who rolled in at 11:37 sans pen, turning an efficient 3-minute handover into a 6-minute pitstop. Still, he made it onto the podium.
Still outstanding: The Courier Guy and Skynet, who are usually fashionably late and slightly suspicious of our dog.
Somewhere between this roundup and Steve’s latest code deployment (I think it was successful?), I glance over at the inbox. Twenty-three unread emails. Someone wants a delivery address change. Someone else forgot to click “Pay Now.” Another person wants to know if Where the Crawdads Sing is still available in hardcover, even though it very clearly says Sold Out on the listing. Deep breaths.
This is the middle of our day. It’s beautifully unhinged, held together with caffeine, courier receipts, and the kind of unspoken understanding only a small team of tired, book-loving people can share.
It’s not glamorous.
But oh, it works.
The 3pm stand-up winds down and I realise I don’t have enough pasta either. The temps get straight back to work. One’s deep into stock take—clipboard in hand, brows furrowed, muttering ISBNs under their breath like a prayer. The other has bravely entered what we lovingly (read: fearfully) call the Room of Requirement—a.k.a. our storeroom of To Be Listed books. It's part Tetris challenge, part archaeological dig.
They’re sorting, cleaning, grading, photographing, and capturing every last detail for the site. Condition? Noted. Spine creases? Flagged. Genre? Assigned. “Emotional damage sustained from years in a high school bag”? Translated into a tactful listing. It’s slow, deliberate, exhausting work—the kind that takes focus and decent lighting. And now, with the Victory Park haul added to the chaos, they’re looking at a queue of well over 1,000 books still waiting their turn. No pressure.
Meanwhile, I’m back at my desk, doing my best impression of someone in control—juggling a flurry of customer emails, courier queries, and that ongoing internal debate of “Do I update the inventory file now or after dinner?”
And then—because the universe loves comedic timing—the bell rings.
It’s 4pm.
On the dot.
Outside, I spot two people: The Courier Guy (finally) arriving to collect today’s outgoing parcels… and a walk-in customer.
Despite the large ONLINE ONLY sign on the website, the gate, and in our automated responses, this brave soul has rocked up in person, holding a printout of their wishlist and the unwavering hope that we have The Alchemist in stock.
I blink. I smile. I grab Zoe (who is thrilled to greet literally anyone), and I head out to do the thing I said I wouldn’t do today: operate like an actual brick-and-mortar store.
While I’m gently explaining that we’re technically not set up for in-person shopping, and that a good portion of our stock lives offiste in different storage facilities—but that I’ll check the back just in case—I’m also texting the team:
“Courier Guy is here. Please stall him if he tries to leave. Also… who has The Alchemist?!”
Somehow, it all comes together. The courier gets his parcels. The walk-in leaves happy (with The Alchemist, obviously). Zoe receives several unsolicited belly rubs. And I return to my desk with the sinking realisation that I’ve still got 17 emails to get through and at least two invoices to reconcile.
It’s the home stretch.
By 5pm, just as most normal people are winding down—pouring a glass of wine, stirring something that smells like actual dinner, maybe even daring to sit down—we hit our next gear.
Vusi returns from his 100km loop of Johannesburg and Ekurhuleni, the hunkered down under the weight of several crates of books. He’s collected from marketplace sellers, depots, and at least one grumpy tannie in Edenvale who insists on exact change and refuses to accept the new bank notes with the baby animals on them. We greet him like a returning war hero: applause, fist bumps, and the standard line—“Please tell me you got Fiction P this time?”
The temps have knocked off by now—one left muttering something about genre-sorting dreams, the other with a thumb stained permanently by sticker goo. Paul, ever disciplined, has already gone to gym (his reward for surviving a full day of waybills, driver banter, and my frantic energy). And suddenly, just briefly, there’s a lull.
It’s during this short window—between Vusi’s return and the nighttime madness—that I attempt the noble domestic juggle: cook supper, remind the kids about their homework for the third time, and try not to burn the pasta while answering a customer’s WhatsApp asking if The Secret History is "creepy in a good way or creepy in a bad way?"
Spoiler: It’s both. Obviously.
And then… the packing marathon begins.
With the day’s incoming stock now here, we move into the next ritual: The Great Amalgamation. Depot orders, marketplace pickups, our own shelves—everything gets matched to slips, combined into single shipments, and laid out across the sorting tables like some kind of chaotic treasure map.
It’s quiet work. Focused. Kind of meditative, if you don’t count the occasional shriek of “Wait—where’s the second copy of Verity?!”
Each order is triple-checked. Spines inspected. Pages counted. Stickers removed (with great suffering). Books are quality-checked, wrapped, labelled, weighed, and stacked. There’s a rhythm to it. A flow. It’s messy but satisfying. Like ballet, if ballet involved more bubble wrap and less grace.
We do this late on purpose. If we pack too early, the courier system sends alerts and suddenly everyone’s being asked to come back for second and third and fourth and fifth pickups. That’s how you end up with disgruntled drivers and us sprinting to lockers in our pyjamas with urgent parcels and zero dignity.
So we wait. And prep. And tomorrow, bright and early:
- Mbusi from Internet Express will arrive for 13 fresh parcels.
- Fastway gets 6.
- RAM gets 3. (And a new pen – on us)
- Skynet and Pargo split the rest like slightly annoyed co-parents.
It’s a logistical ballet performed in bookdust, tape, and sheer willpower.
📚 And Then We Sleep (Sort Of)
By the time we lock up, the parcels are stacked, the inbox is (mostly) quiet, and the shelves—while still slightly chaotic—look a little less like a literary landslide. Zoe is softly snoring in the corner, while somewhere in the background, the label printer finally stops whirring.
The day is technically over.
But before I switch off the lights and pretend I’m not going to answer one more WhatsApp, I do the same thing I do every night:
I check our Google and Bobshop reviews.
Every. Single. One.
I read them slowly—sometimes twice. I smile at the kind words, screenshot the funny ones, and mentally log the helpful ones. I let them land. Because when the tape runs out, when the site glitches, when the courier doesn’t pitch and we’re chasing parcels across Gauteng, this is what makes it all worth it.
Our customers.
The ones who find joy in a book we rescued from a dusty box. The ones who send us voice notes about how their mom cried when she opened her parcel. The ones who understand that behind this little bookshop is just a very tired team (and one very nosy dog) doing their absolute best, every single day.
Running ReadMatter isn’t glamorous. It’s not quiet. And it’s certainly not simple.
But it is meaningful.
It’s about second chances—for books, for readers, for our penguins and for stories that still have something to say. It’s about helping someone find the exact title they didn’t even know they needed. It’s about clutter turning into connection.
And most of all, it’s about showing up—with heart, humour, and a slightly crumpled to-do list—because this strange, beautiful bookish madness is what we love.
Tomorrow?
We’ll do it all again.
With a lot more coffee.
With a lot more bubble wrap.
And with a lot more love.
Thanks for reading my ramblings! Here’s a little reward: use the code NEVERSLEEPS for 10% off your next order — just make sure to use it within a week before it disappears into the bookshop abyss. 📚
