Back from the dead

If I like blogging so much, I guess I would do it more often. These words resonate through my mind most days when I feel like blogging, but I can't be bothered to start writing. So for once I'm using a free window of time to actually get something down and hopefully by reading this it means I actually finished a post! In my absence, they also said that blogging is dead. So let's call this a resurrection.

I do warn you though since my last proper post, I have evolved into something a bit more embittered and well... let's say cranky. Lately I have found even more reason to moan about modern life and everything in it, so I apologise now if this post suddenly mutates into a Max Goldman memoir.

My latest escapade comes from a jolly jaunt in my local neighbourhood, Grangetown CF. When waiting for my car to be fixed, I decided to have a look around the place of my birth, childhood and current residence. I was quite surprised with what I saw, as for the first time I started to see the area as a community of thriving local shops and interesting people instead of the place whee I rest my head at night. After walking up and down Penarth Road (which was coincidentally covered in a radio programme today) I decided to use the facilities at the newly-built library.

As I looked up to the bright, artificial lights of this medicinal-smelling 'sanctuary', I tried to remember with difficulty what libraries used to be like. Children squabbling over five minutes grace on a PC, only to play on some desktop game which requires hefty amounts of excessive clicking; a book checking in-and-out machine which the majority of its users can barely operate ('is this working'?, 'Do I need my card?', 'It's just flashing at me'); whilst works by Kant and Rousseau are deemed 'religious' in a broad array of subjects. But what really wrestles with my memories - for the reason I was wrestling with my book - is the fact that libraries are just not quiet anymore.

If I was 10 years old again, this observation would weigh like a feather on my mind. But now this revelation is earth shattering to me, like rocking an age-old institution. No-one would dream of talking at anything above a whisper. To do so would incur the wrath of the frighteningly efficient and stern-looking librarian, whose silence dictated the law of the library. And for those who were so foolish to speak over a certain decibel level, the librarian would simply become a man of action - brandishing his own justice to preserve the peace of his palace. Now whilst I get to grips with George Monbiot's latest book, I get the full details of librarian's ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, whilst her colleague boasts with enthusiasm (and volume) about the time off he's about to get. Where did it all go wrong? Why have libraries descended into this?

Appeal. Coffee shops, fancy computers, creches - the essential things that 21st century people 'want' or 'need'. The desperate attempts to give the library a more universal appeal. But it fails to consider the very things that libraries should stand for - being able to enjoy a good book in peace and tranquility. In the 21st century hustle and bustle, many facets of society have been busied, modernised, technologicalised and made to keep up the pace with our 24/7 lifestyle.

But the humble library, the embodiment of a social sanctuary outside the realms of pub and home, should remain the place that stays at the slow of a crawl. And quiet too.