It’s entirely likely that I am a raving lunatic. Just a few days ago I formally declared myself a writer which is sort of true. Apart from eating and butchering a romantic language I spend most of my time tick tacking away writing silly stuff on the internet. Of course it’s not actually a career or even a job, more of a hobby gone wild.

I’m not one of those people who started writing because they had some calling to do so. I left my job on a Friday and the following Monday morning I started writing. I just sat down and started typing. And truth be told I can’t even type very well so these doodles take about 12-14 hours to actually take shape. Okay maybe I’m exaggerating a little but not much. I certainly never thought I’d ever write for a living and so far I must say that while the hours are great the payscale needs some work.

When I was in high school I did one of those career aptitude tests and the results suggested two careers for me, military commander or florist. Hmm, creative yet obsessively neat with a tendency towards spiky hair, not far off I’d say. But really I wanted to be a performer, sketch comedy preferably; too tall. I wanted to be a music producer; too afraid of the required cocaine use. I wanted to own an art gallery; too afraid of artists. I wanted to be a gardener; too fond of clean nails. But mostly the one thing I always dreamed of was owning a bookstore.

Every time I see that movie You’ve Got Mail with the world’s most beautiful bookstore, I see myself standing behind the counter chatting to my devoted customers about the latest and greatest novel. On cold rainy days I’d serve hot chocolate, pour myself into a tufted velvet armchair and read until closing while some poor minion I’d hired did all the work. On Thursday nights I’d invite vain and insufferable authors to read from their work and there’d be wine and foie gras on toast triangles served on antique silver trays. But I have my dream life already now don’t I? I’ve escaped from the prison of hospital life and things couldn’t be better right?

Enter the lunatic. The other day I read that the last independent bookstore in Newfoundland (my homeland) is for sale. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Here I am finally free to do whatever I want and The Bookery in St. John’s, where local geniuses like Lisa Moore and Michael Crummey shop, is on the block. Well bloody hell. Never mind that I’m a world away and have not a cent to my name, that store could be mine.

I’m always two steps behind the times it seems. Books are becoming the 8 track tapes of our time and all I want to do is buy a bookstore. I suppose it’s a step in the right direction. Last week I was wanting to audition for the part of Rhoda the snappy sidekick on a new show that I just know will be a smash hit. What’s your dream job?

Bobbi French is a regular contributor to Gypsy Girls Guide