The man in the antique shop was fucking annoying. I thought his presence was because he thought I was going to nick something, but it was because he was an arrogant prick. 

I stared at an eighties promo photo of Madonna that had seventy five smackers on it. “I’ve got three signed Madonna photos,” the guy said. “Are you interested in pop memorabilia? I can find some exciting stuff for you.”

Madonna never signed anything. I ignored him and walked towards a pile of old Rupert annuals instead. 

“Do you like Green Day?”

Fuck me, I thought. But when I looked around he was speaking to somebody else. “I once played on stage with them.”

“Really?” said a female voice. Don’t be such a fucking gullible cunt, I thought.

All the while, the rain bounced onto the tin roof and gave another reason for people to avoid looking for antiques on Saturday afternoon. 

I migrated to the other end of the shop, and an alarm sounded that suggested I’d got too close to the office. The irritating shopkeeper peered from around a corner to see what I was doing. Satisfied that I was merely browsing, he turned his attention back to the unseen female. 

“Got it from the Marquee in London,” he bullshitted. “We cleared it out when it closed.” 

I hadn’t seen the girl, but her voice told me that she was probably a teenager. Naive enough to keep asking silly questions. But when the owner moved aside to let her escape, it was a young lad who appeared in front of the girl. The shopkeeper let him go, but wasn’t done with her yet, caging her in the corner to look at a pile of old pop art magazines. 

The lad walked straight to me and rolled his eyes, because we were both thinking the same. 

He was who I might describe as being typically Cornish. Where I came from his hat would have been called a beanie hat, but down here it would be referred to as belonging to a fisherman. And he wore waterproofs that made him look like he might be a boy of the boats.

He was slightly built, and there wasn’t much to see, except that fascinating face. Two things struck me about him, the green eyes and the downy chin of an adolescent boy whose beard had not yet developed.  

The lad picked up a wooden framed cameo of a small boy. “What do you think the story is? I think it’s Victorian.  A boy blessed to grow old and die. Bleddy ‘ansum that is. What are you interested in?”

I told him I liked old books.

“I’m an artist. Well, a student really. I come here for inspiration. Carve anything out of wood. See that figurehead outside. That’s what I really like.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he grabbed me by the arm and took me outside. 

“Fucking pizendawn out here. Have you got a cigarette?”

I offered him one from a pack of Marlboro Gold that had just cost me fifteen quid. We struggled to light them in the rain and cowered underneath a stone doorway instead.

“Can’t roll-up in the wet. See that beauty there?” He pointed to the nautical figurehead of a beautiful woman that stood outside the entrance. 

I hadn’t noticed it on my way into the shop. 

“From the prow of an old sailing ship. It embodied the spirit of the vessel, offering the crew protection from harsh seas and safeguarding their homeward journeys.”

The girl came outside looking for her boyfriend. 

“Got to go,” and covered his fisherman’s hat with the hood of his coat. “I’m on Insta. Cadan with an ‘a’. Look me up.”

I watched them negotiate puddles between parked cars and head towards the river. Boyfriend and girlfriend, braving the downpour and going home to a simplistic existence. Then they disappeared.

I woke up and it was raining. I’m not bothered because the view from the window is different. Today I see rolling fields filled with sheep and lambs, hedgerows, and woodland. I could be in another time, but the telephone wires stretching across the landscape remind me that I’m not.

I’m far away from the music and lights that fill my normal existence. I’m also away from the mind-numbing shit that drunk people bore me with night after night. They have no idea where I am because I’ve deleted all my social media accounts.

That was the other day. 

In a fit of petulance I deleted Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and with them went the people I’d loved and wanted, and failed to get. But I felt cleansed afterwards and everything seemed much simpler again.

Now I’m in a kitchen, in the middle of the countryside, not far away from the sea. It is wet outside. But nothing could be more pleasurable on a Saturday morning.

A year ago I sat in this same spot, opened my laptop, and wrote a short story. It was about a boy I‘d met in an old bookshop that day. There had been no conversation. The encounter lasted no more than five seconds, but his eyes, that should have been looking at books, looked into mine, and they unlocked something.

That boy, whom I called Samuel, made it the most perfect day. Since then, the creativity inside me has flowed like at no other time.

And now, I’m in this sacred spot again, writing about nothing of interest to anyone, but doing something that makes me happy.