Last Sunday I made my farewell pilgrimage to the World’s Biggest Bookstore.

For thirty-three years it’s been a source of information, inspiration and entertainment, and occasionally a refuge. Probably half the books that infest my house came from there.

It wasn’t just somewhere to find reading material, it was a handy place to meet, a useful place to spend those odd bits of time when I was downtown with a gap in my schedule – or simply a good place to browse and relax. Low-key, predictable, reliable and a permanent feature of my personal urban landscape.

Only now it’s closing.

I’m not surprised  – rumors have been circulating for years. A low-rise box with a big footprint is an obvious target in Toronto’s skyrocketing real estate market.

But I am surprised by how bereft I feel. My life has been punctuated by bookstores and the World’s Biggest was a favourite. Mildly scruffy, with long hours, a reasonably clean washroom, no pressure to buy, and staffed by helpful people who didn’t mind if I took piles of books over to a staircase and sat down to browse.

I know change is inevitable, but when something that was a good part of my life disappears I’m saddened – an old friend I took for granted is gone.

In case you’re wondering what the receipt is for, I bought a gardening magazine with an article on hardy clematis and two books on Italian cooking.

…which reminds me – the Cookbook Store also closed this month.