I began working as a library assistant three years ago. I was fed up of working from home, alone, and my love of libraries from childhood and my student days has stayed with me. They are magical places.



When I joined, my local authority was going through a phase of expanding library provision. It was about to open a stunning building, one of Europe’s largest public libraries, to great fanfare.

But the publicity was for a shiny new place in the city centre. My workplace is a modest community library, built more than 100 years ago, in the suburb where I live.

One of the joys of working here is that I feel as if I’m at the heart of my local area. Despite the difference in my duties – I deal with loans, returns and enquiries – it reminds me of having been a barmaid. And of my stint as a church elder.

I like the sense of wonder expressed by first-time visitors:

“Is it alright if look round?”

“Could I sit down?”

“Can anyone look at the books?”

Some people, particularly children and those who are new to the UK, ask, “Is it free?”

They look disbelieving when I tell them that it is. In a world where services and spaces are privatised, where everyone must pay, what libraries offer seems too good to be true.

Other questions are less easy to answer. My local authority has introduced what we call “a pause” on buying new stock. To some questions, I’m forced to reply:

“Sorry, we don’t have that title.”

“We can’t order it for you.”

“Is that a recent book? Because it’s not in the catalogue.”

Despite not having the latest bestsellers we’re busier than ever. The services we provide may be getting pared away, but other organisations have been pruned even more severely. Citizens Advice, once around the corner, closed its doors years ago. The council’s neighbourhood office, where people could go for help, shut more recently. The police station just down the road is no longer open to the public. So anyone with a problem they can’t solve heads for the library.

Some of these problems are complex, and some are very personal. For example, there was the old man who leaned over the counter to say, “I want to find out about the place where they help you die.”

Other agencies, those that have stayed in business, say they’ll only respond once an initial enquiry has been made online. “You don’t have a computer? Go to the library then. They’ve got lots.”

When there’s a difficulty, nine times out of 10 it involves the computers. These are a scarce resource – we only have a dozen of them – and they switch off automatically a quarter of an hour before the end of the day. Otherwise we’d never get home.

Many people who come to use them are at sea without a lifebelt in a digital world. They need support to download forms and fill in on-screen applications, and we cannot provide it. Far too often there is no family member or friend who can help them either.

They struggle with the basics of typing, scrolling and saving. The session they’ve been allocated runs out before their form is complete. Some of them get angry and blame the technology. People storm out saying our computers are crap. Useless. A waste of time.

Some customers think that library staff are out to obstruct them. Like the man who has a library card – just not with him. He gets angry when I ask for alternative ID; he pays his council tax, and says that entitles him to use a computer. There are times when library staff get threatened.

We have modest pay, but the strong compensation is that staff do feel valued by the great majority of people who use our service. There’s a sense of connection, made up from little acts of warmth. One woman brings us flowers – daffodils, a pots of hyacinths – every other week. I walk down the street in the evening and passers-by smile and wave.

“How do you know them?” my partner asks.

“From the library,” I say.

This series aims to give a voice to the staff behind the public services that are hit by mounting cuts and rising demand, and so often denigrated by the press, politicians and public. If you would like to write an article for the series, contact tamsin.rutter@theguardian.com.

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