The antique shop was nestled in a Somali enclave at the bottom of my road. Surrounded by barbers’ and cafes blasting out football games in unintelligible languages, the shop seemed an anachronism, and indeed it had been there for years, a fact borne out by the virtually indecipherable phone number at the top.
Extending from one side of the window to the other was a deep fissure, caused perhaps by a wannabe burglar, but more likely by an errant chair leg, for who in their right mind would want to steal anything from there? The place was, quite frankly, an eyesore.
The antique shop seemed a final resting place for all manner of curios, dumped there by relatives of the deceased who lacked the time and patience to sort through their loved ones’ belongings properly, because if they had done, they might have spotted the inherent value of the red-eyed dragon. What it lacked in financial value, it clearly made up for in charm and idiosyncrasy, or so my foolish husband obviously believed when he presented it to me, exquisitely wrapped, as ‘a special gift, darling,’ for my 40th birthday.
This post is for Sunday Photo Fiction