Here at Toodie-Loo Incorporated, we only stock 14,775 varieties of the world's best cheeses, wines and coffees

It is starting to feel a bit like "Week 2" of NaNoWriMo. I ran out of inspiration today, and spent my first hour of writing not actually writing but scouring the internet for inspiration. Luckily there is always inspiration to be found in EsNoWriMo's past - both on blogs and in the books themselves.

Enjoy this delightful romp through the EsNoWriMo universe.

Claire is currently on her book tour, promoting her book This Ain't the Stilton - which is actually my book that I wrote last year. In this corner of the multiverse, Stilton is loosely based on real events.

What can you expect to find when you search "Vampyre drunk"

~~~

I look up at the venue for my second book tour stop. A sign above the door reads: Toodie-Loo Incorporated: The World’s Biggest Little Bookstore and Café. It is an unassuming brick building, with large picture windows looking out on the streetscape. Inside I could see rows upon rows of neatly organized book shelves. 

I walk over to the door, pulling it open. I am alarmed by the sound of a door loudly creaking, concerned that I had broken it somehow since the sound was, in fact, a little too loud for a run-of-the-mill glass and metal door. It was almost as if, no exactly as if, the proprietor of the store had connected the door to a sound system that played a spooky Hallowe’en sound effect whenever the door opened.

The air in the store was crisp and cool compared to the sweltering late July air outside. It smelled of books. Not the musty, dusty smell of unused books. The slightly spicy and crisp smell of well loved and well cared-for books.

A woman stands behind the desk. She smiles broadly and warmly, walking out to greet me.

“Juliette Edmund,” she introduces herself as she shakes my hand. “Proprietor of this fine establishment. You must be Claire?”

“I am,” I reply. “Wonderful to meet you. And I must say that it’s a great spot that you have here. I’m curious about the name?”

“I wondered when you would ask,” she says, laughing. “The store came with the name. It has been here for so long, hundreds of years some say. Rumours are that it was the same owner the whole time, though I am not sure how that can be possible. Anyway, he was leaving to work as an interior designer or something and put the shop up for sale. I jumped at the opportunity. Since it is and has been a pillar of the community for as long as anyone can remember, I decided to keep the name even though it is named after the previous owner.”

Realization dawns. But surely this is an impossible coincidence?

“You can’t mean Gordon Toodie, can you?” I ask.

Juliette’s mouth drops open so wide that I am concerned that a fly might go in. “How do you know Gordon?” 

“Gordon moved to Stratford a couple of years ago. Must have been right around the time that you bought the shop? He was working with an interior designer. Made quite a splash in Stratford. In fact, he is in my book…” I trail off. Steph is even more brilliant than I give he credit for.

“An odd little man, isn’t he?” Juliette remarks. “When I took over the place, you should have seen it. I think it was a some sort of detective agency, though their tagline was ‘Welcome to Vamp(y)reland’. There were bats hanging from the ceiling, an upright coffin in one of the corners and an old Hallowe’en sound effect CD was playing in the background. The theme was personified by the man, Gordon. He was pale and thin. His hair tousled and slightly greasy. He was handsome in a sort of romantic, gothic way. He wore a long, dusty black cape of surprisingly good quality. I would know. I went through an ill-advised cape phase in my 20s. These days, I stick to my Ladies’ Night pants.” She motions to her own trousers. Cut with a loose, wide leg that flares out from the knee, they give her the signature ‘comfortable but put-together look’ as only Palazzo pants can.

“Can you show me around? I’d love a tour,” I ask.

Juliette motions for me to follow her. The crisp white walls are adorned floor to ceiling in honey-coloured oak shelving stacked neatly with books. We reach the back of the shop.

“This is the café,” she tells me. “We stock only the best wines, cheese and coffees.” She hands me a menu.