Ian Allan

There are people in the world who collect books on trains. There are people in the world who only read celebrity biographies. There are folks who refuse to glance their eyes across anything that doesn’t have elves killing dwarves and there are people who think Dan Brown is an actual writer, as opposed to a complete git who lucked out because there is a market for typed stupidity out there. And there are people who read all books of every kind because, for them, reading isn’t just a hobby. It’s an all-​consuming activity that pushes everything else in life into the «misc.» category.
I’m one of those people.
Which is why I find shops like Ian Allan’s bookstore so frustrating. I love bookstores; they hold such a wonderful sense of promise. In each one lies the possibility of finding a new world to disappear into. They offer the chance to stumble across something you have never considered before, thus opening up a whole new area of existence to you. However, specialist bookshops take all the excitement out of the proceedings. There’s no surprise. People come in looking for one particular book, and leave with just that book. Where’s the adventure? Where’s the three hours lost, curled up on the floor flicking through first pages looking for that one book that you feel right spending your last £3 on?
I understand they fulfill a specific service, and Ian Allan’s does it well. It clearly offers a comprehensive selection. But it’s like a restaurant that just serves rare steak and potatoes. Fine if you like rare steak and potatoes, but there’s no adventure there.