The entrance to the library headquarters was a mile up Finglas Road where Ita cast a tired ear to the radio.
The street laid itself in supplication before the front gate. The building yawned and stretched, rising to meet the dull day. This was a gleaming citadel dedicated to the words of the living and the dead.
In the bowels of this behemoth, was the collected memory of morons, thought the old porter as he limped out into the sun with the large key.
Standing on the front step, John Porter eyed the queuing public; wide eyed and patient; hanging onto the front gate in anticipation. Every morning is always the same except perhaps this one.
Look at them, he thought with a grin, so eager to enter the Willy Wonka word factory.
The porter stole a quick look above, at the large window behind which resided City Librarian, Mrs. Ita O’Connor. He then flicked the glint out of his eye.
They brushed excitedly past him as he limped back up the steps with the key, locks and chain draped over his shoulder.
Protected from the world, by a warren of shelving, Mrs. Ita O’Connor paced around her quarters addled and distressed. Her body was letting her down. A portable radio sat on a volume of Latin Classics.
“Well ladies and gentlemen, we have been on to the library headquarters and can’t get any answers, really it is the one place you would expect answers” said Joe Puffy.
“They’re against me, they are all against me”, she muttered and threw the small radio against the wall. It’s pieces shattering. The volume of Latin classics shifted on its axis. The dust rose to caress the light peeling through the panes.