While in Seville, we discovered this lovely little shop quite by accident, and despite it being cutesy and overly touristy at first sight, decided to go in. As anyone who knows me knows, I have a thing for London, which makes it fortunate that I'm going back there in a few days, but until that happens, I thought I'd assuage my missing it by taking you to this little place.
I gotta say the Lady Di dress in the window did turn my head a bit. I am quite sure I would've looked quite good in that (wouldn't say no to a palace or two, while we're at it). Still, baggage allowances and all that.
Much of the store was taken up by the usual quintessentially British paraphernalia - the Tube, the Beatles, Harry Potter. The same things you'll find in any and every little souvenir shop in London (or anywhere else in the UK, for that matter). Personally, I've never gone for those stores, as that's not what London means to me, but still. I suppose it's a cute idea, and the shop was laid out in a lovely, elegant way, so at least it didn't feel like a little old souvenir shop. They also had a wide range of teas and scented literary candles, which I love and was sweet for me, as the first time I discovered these was in Scotland (not a big thing here).
They also had an interesting selection of books, like this one:
Which I liked chiefly for the art. There's something whimsical and dark about it, I thought, which can be said also about many of these women writers. I'm not a fan of modern so-called feminists, but clearly, it took great gumption to be a woman who wrote when it was hardly that you were noticed at all, separated from your husband and his profession.
I skimmed through it and snapped a photo to send to a friend and fellow book lover of one of my favorite female writers. It was quick and I liked her picture more than Emily Bronte's, though if I had to pick amongst the many female writers of yore, I'd probably go with the author of Wuthering Heights.
It reminded me of an interesting debate I stumbles across recently, over Woolf's heartbreaking suicide note to her dear husband Leonard. The third and final note, rather, and whether or not it's fair for that to be treated as a piece of literature. Personally, I think it is, as is true for anything that is beautifully written. I think one can appreciate the terrible beauty of the note, while also appreciating the terrible finality of Woolf's untimely death.
But in the end, it wasn't for the literary treats I fell for. If it were up to me, I would've left empty-handed, though thankfully, 
Is Placebo particularly emblematic of British culture? To me, not particularly. I think there are some, like Queen or perhaps The Clash or Sex Pistols that feel quite British, but Placebo's always felt beyond nationality and soul to me. Something that transcends borders, as does great literature, as should all beautiful things that we can band together over.
So I left with this, but also with a question - what is the British spirit, then? If it's not Freddie Mercury or the Tube, or tea. I don't know, honestly. For me, it's millennia of history which I've loved and poured over ever since I was a little girl. It's the subtle black humor of the Monty Python world onwards. It's the quiet glory of a dirty, overcrowded city that never fails to impress upon me when I'm there. But there I go again, and I feel I should stop. No doubt I'll come back with a similar feeling and tell you about it then.
So until then,
