John Sandoe Books
A RARE SURVIVAL FROM a bygone era of British retail, John Sandoe resembles nothing so much as the library of an erudite uncle who holds himself benignly aloof from the strutting and spending commonly associated with this part of Chelsea. It even smells erudite: the clean, dry aroma of paper and ink exhaled from the rows upon stacks upon heaps of brand-new books that teeter on the brink of, but never quite tumble over into, outright chaos. Order is preserved by a team of assistants who, between them, contribute to the atmosphere of unobtrusive good taste. The visitor is unlikely to be asked if he requires any help. The fact that he found his way to Sandoe in the first place implies that he knows just what he’s looking for, or else has the leisure and discernment to winkle something perfect out of a stock of the best and most beautiful books on the market.
There’s beauty, too, in the surroundings, which reek of a deep-dyed authenticity no decorator could hope to recreate. It’s impossible to grasp the concept of ‘Shabby Chic’ until one has soaked up the combined effect of the precipitous stairs, the scuffed paintwork and the frayed and faded rugs. Pay close attention to the ingenious shelving arrangement on the first floor. Layered three deep, the cases are mounted on rails. The metallic squeak as they heft back and forth is, for me, the sound of Sandoe.
See also: Daunt Books
