Grit is a criminal

It's definitely that time of month again. Time to check the library cards. I have fallen into the routine of asking the librarian to scan the library cards and reveal whether we are criminals for having lost Dolphin Diaries for the fifth time running, or whether I am a good, clean, honest library user and returned all the books, including those stuffed down the back of the radiator and under the sofa.

This is a routine that had to be. Being smart home educators we borrow 40 books at a time. Anything and everything from the History of Dust to I am a Frog. Being disorganised and chaotic, we only take 20 books back. I was handing over the children's inheritance once a month in library fines. Add the cost of lost books and I could have handed over my bank cards and the pin numbers. A monthly check up is one way to avoid bankruptcy.

And I nearly am organised. Normally I take the cards to our local branch but we have a busy week and I am passing a library branch right now. I've never used this branch before. I decide to go in, and I feel good about that, because I feel organised, in a haphazard sort of way.

But something is not right. The door does not open. This is confusing to an elderly Grit who is standing outside a closed library door in the drizzle. The library says it is Open and look! The door is locked! I spy a hand written notice on the door. Buzz bottom left. Grit searches for buzzers to her left bottom and indeed finds a grimy button that she would like to spray with a sanitizer before she actually touches it. Unable to do so she wraps a tissue round her finger. Not that I am phobic about germs you understand, it's just that you never know, and it does no harm to wipe the door handles with Dettol when there are children around. I mean, would you drink the same water that a toddler has been drinking? Have you seen what they can put back in there?

Anyway, it takes some time to get in. A minute. A minute and a half. I should have taken seconds. Well, the time I have taken to get inside the open/closed library has marked me out. I am Trouble.

A ferocious-looking lady with grey hair and tight, beady eyes is standing behind a Formica desk just inside. She is The Librarian. And she is Not Happy. She picks up a mouse and bangs it up and down on a mouse pad, tutting, focusing on the screen to one side. So I stand, quietly, in what I hope is a posture that says I'm sorry for interrupting, but...

'Yes' she snaps, not looking at me. Clearly I haven't got any books to return, so I am wanting something else. I am unnerved. I may be aged 9 again and confessing that it was me who took the apple. I am used to Lindsey, our local librarian. Lindsey is lovely, and she is tolerant of us when we lounge about the children's section at 11 o'clock in the morning like it's our front room. She doesn't mind. In fact she often laughs. Sometimes a bit too long and sorrowfully when we have rearranged all the carpets, cushions and chairs and made big piles of books, and said 'Today we want to take out 60 but we're not taking the Magic Kitten out again so make that 59', but never mind. She is on Our Side.

'I'm sorry but could you check these cards to see if we have anything overdue?' I say. I'm trying to be nice. I don't want a punch in the face. Mrs Ferocity tuts, loudly, dropping the mouse, turning to take my cards. Only now I can't get them out my purse. I am clearly incompetent. They just won't come out the little holder. I don't know why. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. I've noticed that inanimate objects do that, once a month. They gang up on me. Well I'm taking too long, that's for sure. She sweeps her eyes around the room as if summoning the books to agree with her, with a look that says 'Is this woman as thick as pig shit or what?' A man browsing classic cars glances up woefully and the tips of my ears burn.

In a darting look where flowers would wither and contempt for Grit would turn her hair greyer than it already is, The Librarian raps a finger on the desk while I finally free one of the plastic cards from my purse and hand it over.

The scanner goes 'blip'. I am captured. '£2.69' she barks, and slaps the card face down on the desk. 'Diplodocus. You can't take any books until you pay.'

I am criminalised. Meekly I hand over the money. And another £1.80 for a book about castles. And a further 56p for an Eyewitness guide to armour. She takes the coins slowly, counting them up, one by one before rattling them into her cash till. I almost expect her to bite the 5 pence pieces between her teeth, because I look like that sort of library user.

When all the cards are swiped, the fines are paid, and I am prosecuted, convicted, punished and made miserable at the thought that somewhere my crimes will be forever database-stored and held against me in the event of any further convictions, at least I can heave a big sigh of relief that somewhere we are still liked and our criminal activities are not judged too harshly. At our local branch we can still take out 40 or more books again, mess up the furniture, argue about the Magic Kitten and chat with Lindsey.

I apologise, slip away, out the door, into the rain, away from the watching browser of classic cars, and back into the relative anonymity of the street. Possibly here no-one knows I have a criminal record. And although the drizzle has turned to grey studs of rain hammering into the pavement, I'm relieved to have escaped without a further tongue lashing, and I promise myself that next time I will be more organised and make sure it's Lindsey who laughs.