The unpronounceables

I come from a family to whom second languages are a breeze, and often third/fourth languages (if you count Swiss-German/French dialect as a language and not just a dialect). I will just say here that my pathetic contribution is French, and that's it. I once had a lengthy conversation while Interrailing, sitting outside the umpteenth cathedral I refused to go into, with a charming ancient Italian bloke in my A-level Spanish. We understood each other perfectly. It helped that the girls and I had had some wine at lunch, also that he was slightly deaf. And at the point where it turned out he was trying to set me up with his son (not present) I feigned a sudden lack of interpretation skills.
Having a facility for languages, however, is actually no help at all in the world of bookselling. Many customers, and this is not at all a criticism, don't know how to pronounce the names of foreign writers, and frankly nor do we most of the time. I know in theory that Houellebecq is pronounced Wellbeck, but prefer to pronounce it Ooouelleblablablabecque. Ditto with Chuck Palahniuk, who is now officially Plalalalalalaniacccchhh. Or maybe it's easiest to say "It's in paperback fiction under H. Just before Elizabeth Jane Howard." - all of which brings back to me the early days of Salman Rushdie's fatwah, and how suddenly it was The Done Thing on the BBC news to refer to him as SoolmAAhn RooshdEE.
Certain words are also a minefield - I mean we all know in theory how to say "genre" but tend not to, as you end up sounding like a Saatchi underling trying to sell Tracey Emin's used pants to an awestruck art novice. Especially if you add the unforgiveable word "oeuvre" which, if not considerately and inclusively pronounced "hoover", marks you out as so pretentious you need shooting. I love Nabokov (sorry), and wouldn't dream of saying "oeuvre" about his body of work.
We recently invented some incorrect pronunciations (it was a quiet afternoon) for use on the more studiedly poncey customer : my personal favourite was Alain-Benet (to be pronounced like JonBenet), although he was run a close second by Dan Brun and Jean Greeshamm.

That old devil called 80s nostalgia

Obviously like most people my age (99 years old as per my Profile, oh yes - get them celebratory telegrams ready for later this month when I turn 100), I can be reduced to weedy girly tears by a song I haven't heard for ages - and nowhere is this more apparent than in the new BBC series "Ashes to Ashes". No, the BBC is NOT paying me for plugging it, or I'd be doing this blog from a cosy Eames chair in a 10th floor corner office at Broadcasting House rather than perched on a rickety Ikea barstool out the back of a bookshop. AAAAAAAnyway. As is de rigueur (that's yer actual french) for anything set in the 80s, the soundtrack is BRILLIANT and so far has hit every single button - I can only assume someone My Age has sat there rubbing their tiny hands with glee and going "The Clash? Check. The Associates? Check. Bowie? Huh, read the title, divvy." HOWEVER. And this is where you realise you're driven by Nostalgia rather than Taste. It's when you hear the first 2 seconds of a song and feel the tears well up, and start frantically texting your dearest mates (all of whom are also watching due to an inexplicable but hormone-heavy crush on the sexist dinosaur that is Gene Hunt) going "Jon & Vangelis! I HATE this song!!!" despite your, by now, frankly snot-ridden sniffs of emotion. Yes, it is a truly awful song, the worst and laziest of New Age saddo music for Euro-weenies to seduce beyootiful laydies to, but having not heard it for (thankfully) a billion years, I found myself actually WHISKED back to 1981 (or nearest offer) and scrabbling around frantically for my electric-blue batwing-sleeved jumper, hair waffleriser, and pixie boots. I have mixed feelings about watching the rest of the series now (those of you reading this from abroad, i.e. not the UK, Google it - it's fabulous and will shortly be remade very badly in many other countries.) - I am no longer even pretending to follow the plot, I'm simply cruising hypnotically from one musical nostalgia trip to the next.