London mornings are as hot as an oven that's been sitting for too long; the air is stuffy and heavy, and even the wind is too lazy to stir.
But at the flagship bookstore on Oxford Street, the line stretched from outside the window to the next street corner, winding along the sidewalk twice, with the end of the line almost touching a hot dog cart.
Alfred stood inside the store and glanced at the scene outside through the glass door, unable to help but gasp.
Mary, holding a stack of registration forms, said with a tremor in her voice, "Boss, I counted, there are at least four hundred people in line right now."
More than on the day the first movie was released.
Alfred glanced at his watch; it was 8:53, and there were still seven minutes before the door opened.
"Move all the inventory from the warehouse to the door."
"No need to keep any stock today, I'll add more once it's sold out."
Mary nodded, then turned and ran towards the warehouse.
In the queue on Oxford Street, a young man in a white shirt was chatting with a friend on the phone. His forehead was covered in sweat, and the back of his shirt was already soaked.
"I'm in line... yes, for the second Harry Potter book..."
An excited voice came from the other end of the phone. The young man wiped his sweat and laughed, "Don't worry, I bought three copies for myself, one for myself and two to give away... What about you guys?"
After he hung up the phone, a girl wearing a baseball cap in front of him turned around and glanced at him. "You bought three books too?"
I'll buy one for each of my parents.
The girl in the baseball cap waved the ten-pound note in her hand, which was slightly damp with sweat.
"Last time, I bought the first copy a day late and had to go to four different bookstores before I could get it. This time, I learned my lesson and came to queue up at six in the morning."
The young man smiled and said, "I arrived at 5:30 this morning, and I'm still so far back in line."
An elderly woman wearing a plaid scarf, who was standing in front of us, turned around when she heard this. She was carrying a vegetable basket with neatly folded newspapers inside.
"5:30 is nothing, I arrived at 5:00."
She lowered her voice, with a hint of pride typical of someone her age.
"The young man behind me arrived at seven o'clock; he's probably still on the street corner."
A low chuckle rippled through the ranks.
Standing for a long time inevitably leads to boredom, and people naturally start chatting, the topic quickly turning to the recent literary debate that has been making headlines.
"You saw that editorial in the Times Literary Supplement, didn't you?"
The young man asked.
"I looked at it."
The girl in the baseball cap pouted. "But what I hate most is that interview with Martin Amis, where he said something about 'boiled cabbage'... I wanted to say, why don't you cook me a bowl of cabbage that sells nine million copies?"
"That's 'serious literature,' you know."
A middle-aged man in a dark gray suit interjected, his tone clearly disdainful.
"Is something serious just because nobody reads it? I can't understand it. I'd rather read something I can actually read."
The old lady in the plaid scarf nodded. "My granddaughter is nine years old this year. During the days she was reading ' Harry Potter,' she told me stories from the book every day."
"I read it myself later, and it's really well written."
I think so too!
A boy in a school uniform squeezed through the crowd from the back of the line and interrupted. His backpack strap was hanging crookedly on his shoulder, and he was clutching a crumpled banknote in his hand.
"My parents said that book was for kids, but they secretly read the whole thing while I was sleeping, and the next day they even urged me to buy a second copy."
The people around them laughed again.
The middle-aged man in the gray suit shook his head, his voice neither loud nor soft. "Those critics, I think, just can't stand seeing other people's writing sell better than theirs."
"Think about it, your book sells 80,000 copies, while someone else's book sells nine million copies. How can you feel at peace with that?"
"Absolutely."
The girl in the baseball cap chimed in, "I saw a review yesterday saying that Harry Potter is just a 'phenomenon,' not 'literature.' Come on, isn't literature something people enjoy reading?"
"Right!"
The young man held up his phone. "I was just telling my friend, what's the point of telling me a book is 'profound' or 'serious' if it doesn't even make you want to keep reading?"
An elderly woman at the front of the line said slowly, "When I was young, when ' The Lord of the Rings ' first came out, many people said it was childish stuff for kids."
"And then? Later, the Lord of the Rings became a classic in fantasy."
A burst of laughter echoed from the queue.
The office worker in the white shirt in front of him pushed up his glasses and slowly picked up the conversation:
"I saw that editorial in the Times Literary Supplement yesterday; I think it was the fairest."
"Let's see if anyone still remembers them in fifty years."
"See, that's what a scholar should say. They didn't say who's good or bad; they said time will tell."
"But I only live for a few decades, why should I wait fifty years?" the old lady retorted in a strong voice from behind, drawing another round of laughter from those around her.
On the other side of London, in front of Simon Bookstore in Manchester, the situation was even more exaggerated London.
The queue stretched from the front gate all the way to the park entrance across the street, with a conservative estimate of seven or eight hundred people.
Mr. Simon moved a folding chair to the store entrance to maintain order, holding a megaphone and occasionally shouting, "Don't push, everyone gets a seat."
But the barely suppressed smile on his face already told everyone that he was in an exceptionally good mood today.
"Boss!"
The shop assistant rushed out of the store and whispered, "Boss, the warehouse has been checked again, and all 20,000 books are stacked. But look at the number of people, I think it's going to be tough."
Simon took a sip of his lemonade, unhurriedly saying, "What's the rush? If all else fails, I'll just clear out the storage room next to the warehouse."
The shop assistant was sweating profusely. "That storage room is full of old books; we hadn't even dealt with them from last month—"
"Move the old books to the toilet." Simon waved his hand, his gaze sweeping over the expectant faces in the line. "Nobody's stopping me from making money today."
The shop assistant nodded and then went back inside.
In a chain bookstore in Liverpool, regional manager William stands in the central control room of seven stores, the phone in front of him ringing incessantly.
"Hello? The flagship store says the queue has already exceeded five hundred people..."
"The North District branch also said their inventory is running low and asked if they could send more stock in advance..."
The downtown store is asking if we need more staff...
William picked up a pen, quickly scribbled a few lines on the progress chart in front of him, then picked up the phone and dialed the main warehouse number:
"Unseal all the inventory in the central warehouse and distribute it proportionally to the seven stores."
"Not a single one can be missing!"
After he hung up the phone, his assistant cautiously asked, "Manager, so... the central warehouse isn't keeping any inventory?"
"Keep what?" William glanced at her, his tone urgent. "If you leave the goods in the main warehouse today, those people queuing up tomorrow will go to other stores to buy them."
"If you want to maintain the performance of these seven stores, you have to let them buy as much as they want today."
He hung up the phone and waved to the shop assistant. "Pull the banner tighter; the right corner is drooping."
The shop assistant quickly ran over to adjust it. The words on the banner were blindingly bright in the sunlight.
" Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Part 1) will be released simultaneously throughout Great Britain on September 1st at 9:00 AM."