I just wandered past an old-fashioned hardware shop, one of a dying breed. A carefully-hung selection of mops and brushes fluttered in the breeze; peering inside, I spied a veritable treasure-trove of household essentials.

The friendly proprietor of a neighbourhood store such as this would know everyone, be at the heart of the community. Children would be despatched by their parents on errands; smiling down at them, he’d check their order, wrap their goods with brown paper and string, and teach the youngest how to count out their change.

He’d have a special drawer, of course. I imagined one young lady, in her smart school blazer, nervously perusing the shelves inside as I walked past, sniffing the shop’s distinctively clean air, waiting for the coast to clear of other shoppers. He’d welcome her warmly: he would have known her since she’d been a little girl. He’d have heard of her successes - the scholarship to the Grammar School, the prize-winning poems.

And now she’d be telling him, under her breath, that her daddy had sent her to buy a strap from the special drawer. He wouldn’t hear the first time: she’d have to repeat herself louder, glancing over her shoulder lest anyone had entered the shop.

And he’d shake his head sadly. He’d know that she was an only child: there could be no confusion as to her imminent fate. And he’d reach into his drawer, and rummage around for the lightest strap he had left, and parcel it up carefully as a tear trickled down her cheek.

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