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

To this day, I recall the smell of methane, the vicious blue flame and the ice cold feel of brass. Even when the Bunsen Burners weren’t being used, I’d sense their presence, positioned strategically in the centre of the high wooden tables like soldiers ready to attack.

I hated chemistry. The Mr Bean-type teacher, Mr Tansley wore a melange of browns and purples under his lab coat; this was the 80s after all, yet he somehow always looked dour; miserable and afraid of the world he intended us to discover through various experiments and calculations. Yet despite my aversion both to him and the subject, I pitied him for he was hated by teachers and pupils alike, bullied and tormented by both. I often wondered why he’d chosen such a job.

It was a sad, old lesson for me, a big black hole in my middle school timetable; the misery reinforced only by one hastily scribbled comment in my school report. ‘You don’t like chemistry and chemistry doesn’t like you.‘

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Greta released a sigh of pleasure as she entered Periwinkle Square. It was truly immaculate with its identical mansions, leaf-free entrances and matching rose beds. Greta passed through it every day on the way to her job in Victoria. Although she took a slight detour to do so, this was of no hindrance as it enabled her to start work with a clear head. Perfection did this for Greta. The sight of the higgledy-piggledy mishmash of dire winter clothes that the majority of London commuters insisted on wearing on the preceding tube journey was nothing but a painful abhorrence to Greta, something that needed to be obliterated.

Today, however was different. At first glance the square looked the same, but as Greta ambled through, she noticed something awful. One of the marble pillars outside Number 7 had been damaged.

‘What on earth happened here?’ Greta said to herself and without another thought, removed her gloves and attempted to lift the broken piece which was lying by the pillar.

‘Oi, lady. What are you doing?’

Greta looked up to see a surly workman running up to her with an axe. ‘The new owners said to destroy it. Russians, I think. Don’t like old things.’

‘But it will spoil the square. Everything needs to look the same!’

‘Beauty is truth,’ said the workman. ‘Some poet said that once. These people live here now – the old is not their truth.’

Greta stared at him, amazed he knew anything about poetry but she realised there was nothing she could do so she walked back the way she’d come and resolved to find a different perfect square the next day.

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction