My Kids Ask If I Read Books at Work. I Laugh. Then I Cry.

By Claire, professional book hoarder, amateur crisis manager.

It happened last week.

One of my kids looked up at me from the couch and asked with wide-eyed sincerity:
"Mom, do you read at work?"

And I do what any good mother would do.
I laugh.
Then I cry.
Then I make a cup of coffee strong enough to stun a goat.

Because the truth is, once upon a time, I thought opening a bookstore would mean swimming in literature.
I imagined long afternoons curled up in a sun-drenched corner of the depot with a new release and a bottomless mug.
Customers would drop in, we’d swap recommendations, and maybe I’d wear a soft cardigan and quote Wuthering Heights in casual conversation.

Instead, I know how many Nora Roberts we have in stock down to the exact millimetre of shelf space.
I can price a James Patterson faster than I can name all three of my children in the right order.

But read?
That’s adorable.

I don’t read at work — I live stories. Every book we unpack, every box we ship, every shelf we stack is another piece of a dream stitched together with paper and ink. It's not just a job; it's the joy of books, the love of reading, and the beautiful chaos of life in a bookshop.

The Irony of the Book Business

People assume—understandably—that owning a bookshop must be heaven for a reader.
And in some ways, it is.
I get to talk about books, sell books, sniff books (don’t judge me), and even name penguins after characters in books.

But sitting down with a novel?
That happens on the weekend, under a blanket of guilt and overdue email replies.

My to-be-read pile mocks me from the nightstand.
It’s structurally unsound and may qualify as a minor geological formation.

Reading on the Job (Kind Of)

Of course, every now and then, temptation gets the better of me.

The most I’ve ever managed in terms of reading at work is flicking through a recipe book or two, looking for dinner inspiration.
Sometimes, I even take hopeful photos of a few pages, telling myself I'll swing past Woolies after the 3 p.m. school run, grab some ingredients, and whip up something spectacular.

It’s a cute thought—at 9 a.m., when the depot is quiet and the world feels full of possibility, when life in a bookshop feels deceptively slow and gentle.

Maybe today will be slow.
Maybe I’ll have time to cook an Ottolenghi dinner.
Maybe I'll finally use the preserved lemons I bought in a moment of misplaced optimism.

But by the time 3 p.m. rolls around, reality sets in.

The orders have been pouring in thick and fast.
And you’ll know from previous blogs—we pack after hours to make things easier for our couriers—so wasting an hour and a half cooking feels wildly irresponsible.

That hour and a half?
It’s the difference between finishing packing and getting to bed by 11:40 p.m. or slogging it out until 1:10 a.m.

Meanwhile, Paul maintains a perfect record of never being caught reading at work.
(Although he was once spotted re-reading an invoice with suspicious enthusiasm, but that’s another story.)

Steve, on the other hand, holds the current record for Longest Reading Session During Office Hours.

One memorable Friday, he ambled in around 3 p.m., set up his laptop, and announced his PC was "running a process"—a phrase vague enough to cover everything from a software deploy to a lunchtime nap.
He wandered off, found an Anthony Beevor history book, and parked himself on the couch at the back of the depot.

At 5 p.m., Paul left for gym.
At 5:20 p.m., I switched off the depot lights and started locking up, blissfully unaware that Steve was still on the premises.

That is, until a shout came from the darkness at the back:
"What happened to the power?"

Reader, I nearly expired from fright.

Steve, to his credit, just propped his book back up on his knee and waited for me to unlock everything again.

Because if you’re going to get locked in somewhere... it might as well be inside a bookshop, surrounded by bookstore stories waiting to be lived.

Books for the Weekend

So when do we get to read? On the weekend. From when we close on a Friday afternoon until when we reopen on Monday morning. It’s a tradition – no one ever leaves on Friday afternoon empty-handed; we all leave with a pile of books tucked under our arms.

Everyone moves differently—Steve gravitating toward military history, Vusi picking out fantasy novels for his daughter, Paul trying (and failing) to pretend there’s nothing untoward about choosing a murderous, grisly thriller.

I told myself I’d be sensible last Friday (being a long weekend, after all).
I left with six novels.
Reader, I finished two.

Meanwhile, Paul left with two—and, because he’s Paul—finished both by 11:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, exactly on schedule, so he could start the braai. With German precision – Paul once calculated how long it takes him to read a page — and not just in a general sense. Oh no. There are spreadsheets. He has separate coefficients for font size, line spacing, and paper thickness. If the margins are narrow, he deducts time. If the book uses Garamond instead of Times New Roman, he adds a buffer. I kid you not — he once took a Mo Hayder off the shelf, said, “I will have 3 hours to read,” and estimated he’d finish it in 2 hours and 40 minutes based on his reading velocity model. Apparently, he has a whole equation. Like it’s a science experiment.

And honestly? That’s where I draw the line. Books are not sprints. They are not to be devoured like a 30-second microwave meal. They’re meant to be felt. To linger. To rattle around in your ribcage. I once cried so hard during The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah that I had to delist the book from our store due to — and I quote — "water damage."

 Meanwhile Paul’s out here doing mathematical gymnastics to figure out page-per-minute averages. What his little algorithm fails to account for — and I say this with all the fury of someone who’s been married for 15 years— is real life. Real feelings. What about sob breaks? What about that moment when you read a paragraph so gutting you have to close the book and stare into space for ten minutes? Or when a twist is so personal you can’t breathe through it in one go? Books are not conveyor belts, Paul. They’re not data sets. Sometimes I feel like throwing my jar of preserved lemons directly at him. ( Yes - I still haven’t made that Ottolenghi recipe).

Steve left with one book, but whether he actually read it or spent the entire long weekend playing Call Of Duty is anyone’s guess. I really need to find a nice girl for Steve.  (Ladies, if you’re sweet, have a good Wi-Fi connection, and fall somewhere between 25 and 30 — Steve’s 29, 5’11, reads military history, and knows what an ethernet cable is. Applications open.)

But that’s the beautiful thing about stories.
There’s always room for one more.
Even if we never read as much as we hope, we keep carrying books home, week after week, like little promises to ourselves.

Claire’s Weekend Reads

Despite hauling six books home, I only managed to finish two this weekend, Girl A and the Interpreter:

Girl A (Abigail Dean): ( I'd give it a solid 8/10)

Haunting, raw, and delicately brutal. I read it in one sitting and then had to sit with it for a while. Dean’s writing is scalpel-sharp and disarmingly compassionate.

The Interpreter (Brooke Robinson) (7.5/10)

A slow-burn that left scorch marks. I couldn't stop thinking about the ethical murk of parenthood, protection, and silence.

Weekend Books: Staff Edition

• Paul has finished pillaging our entire business section and has now, somewhat alarmingly, moved onto the grisly world of Chris Carter thrillers. I worry about him. I think the lentils he's been eating for lunch have gone to his brain. One minute he’s reading The Art of Strategic Negotiation; the next, he’s reading about forensic pathologists solving serial murders with garden shears. Pray for Paul.
• Steve (our mysterious, ponytailed developer) normally works from home, but he popped in on Friday after I tipped him off that we got a new Damien Lewis in. I suspect Steve harbors a past-life fantasy of being a marine. (And honestly? I wouldn’t put it past him.)
• Vusi, our ever-cheerful courier driver, left grinning with a stack of P.C. Cast novels for his teenage daughter. I told him she could keep them on the house — because Vusi always, always goes above and beyond for us, no matter how many last-minute "urgent collections" I throw at him.

So No, Sweetheart. Mommy Doesn’t Read at Work.

But she lives books.
She sells memories.
She curates adventures.

And when she finally does steal a moment to read — curled up in bed, the chaos muted for a while — it feels like coming home.