In my first year at university I went to the library desk and asked for a book by someone called ‘Ibid.’
Librarian: What?Me: This chap [I pointed to a note at bottom of a journal article]. He's quite prolific. I'm surprised you've not got a section devoted to him. He's written some good stuff!
Librarian: Are you
mad?Me: Eh? Oh....sorry, I'm not trying to tell you your job... but it makes sense to have him all in one place. Oh, and another thing. He not on your index. Could you add him to the computer?
Librarian: One moment please.
I watched, puzzled, as he stumbled into the library rest room, shut the door carefully, then punched the air with one hand while grabbing his throat with the other. He then spoke to his colleagues and a great ROAR of laughter echoed through the ventilation system. Faces appeared at the glass in the door to look at me, then screams and groaning noises replaced the laughter...
Me: [turning to my neighbour in the queue] Crikey! Funny lot these librarians, eh?
That reminds me of something similar. When a young Japanese student (of which there were increasing numbers) asked me to recommend a basic book on Fugue, I asked her to consult George Oldroyd's
The Technique and Spirit of Fugue.
Later that day, she returned to my office to say that the library did not have it in the catalogue. In disbelief I sat her in front of my Mac, and logged in to the Library catalogue. There, in an instant, was the entry which read "
The Technique and Spirit of Fugue, Oldroyd G". I pointed this to her on the screen...
...but she then said she knew there was a book there called "
The Technique and Spirit of Fugue, Oldroyd, G", but accusingly reminded me that I had asked her to look for "Oldroyd, G,
The Technique and Spirit of Fugue", which was not the same as "
The Technique and Spirit of Fugue, Oldroyd, G" WAS IT!
Shortly thereafter I decided to retire.
Baz