At Madras Central (or Chennai Central as you young ones call it) in the 1980s, I looked forward to buying books at HigginBotham’s. It was the beginning of the journey back home. The last 36 odd hours on a train before you had to go back to school.
But much as I loved books, I always bought my books at HigginBotham’s because I thought it had something to do with Ian Botham. People were still telling young impressionable children like me about the Ashes in 1981. In my head, any book bought at HigginBotham’s got me closer to Ian Botham.
(Actually, I love you HigginBotham’s. You saved me from a life of literary privation. And you made a small eight year old girl feel like she was shaking hands with Ian Botham.)