Inprint Eulogy

The Inprint shop and building in the High Street in Stroud,
Resembles nothing so much as something out of Dickens,
An Old Curiosity Shop,
Defying straight lines of logic:
A seeming hexagonal structure,
With Wemmick-like turrets at the top;
The shop doorway on the corner at an angle,
With a fading palimpsest gable end advertisement
For something delicious and ‘home made’,
And a mysterious door numbered 31a,
That might – or might not- take us up flights of stairs,
Past so many Great Expectations,
And so to Mr. Wemmick’s castle up on high.

But far better than such an ascension,
Let us examine the shop windows:
Displays that follow the high ideals of public broadcasting,
Spectacles of books and comics and posters and maps,
All artfully and painstakingly arranged,
A tableau of colour and half-remembered past time,
A street mis en scene that arrests the eye,
And one which informs, educates and entertains,
A business that improves the mind of the passer-by,
As well as tempting the bibliophile;

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above photos.

The Inprint shop and building in the High Street in Stroud,
Resembles nothing so much as something out of Dickens,
An Old Curiosity Shop,
Defying straight lines of logic:
A seeming hexagonal structure,
With Wemmick-like turrets at the top;
The shop doorway on the corner at an angle,
With a fading palimpsest gable end advertisement
For something delicious and ‘home made’,
And a mysterious door numbered 31a,
That might – or might not- take us up flights of stairs,
Past so many Great Expectations,
And so to Mr. Wemmick’s castle up on high.

But far better than such an ascension,
Let us examine the shop windows:
Displays that follow the high ideals of public broadcasting,
Spectacles of books and comics and posters and maps,
All artfully and painstakingly arranged,
A tableau of colour and half-remembered past time,
A street mis en scene that arrests the eye,
And one which informs, educates and entertains,
A business that improves the mind of the passer-by,
As well as tempting the bibliophile;

When you enter the shop via the corner door,
Even though a bell doesn’t ring,
I always hear one,
A magical rite of passage,
For I am sure the bookshelves reach to ceilings
In rooms that seem to carry on for ever,
With posters and pictures and mechanical contrivances
Also inhabiting this liminal space.

It is as unlike George Orwell’s bookshop
As unlike can be –
‘books give off more and nastier dust
than any other class of objects yet invented …’ –
For at night, when Stroud’s High Street is muffled
In pitch-black silence,
The books come alive in Inprint:
Talking of their origins and import,
Boasting of their wisdom and sagacity,
Like nineteenth century backbenchers –
But their colloquy always ends in agreement,
For as dawn approaches,
The Old Curiosity Shop and
A la recherché du temps perdu,
Hop down to the table; stand upright,
And propose their daily toast:
“And so we conclude our discourse
Ladies and gentlemen,
With this question:
Are our owners Goodenough?”
And all the books reply in unison,
Banging the shelves with their pages
And the walls with their spines,
With an occasional tear but always a smile,
“No! They are sans pareil!”

But when the shop closes for the last time,
And Inprint goes online,
There won’t be a dry eye in the house,
When that toast is proposed for the final time –

But remember:
A la recherché du temps perdu
Reminds us all
That we can still enjoy our memories of this wonderful shop,
Be grateful for its existence,
Visit it online,
And cherish our madeleine moments,
For Joy and Mike Goodenough,
And dear old Inprint,
(Please raise your glasses,
Ladies, gentlemen and comrades)
Are simply,
“Sans pareil!”