N-Ballo

In the corner of the market place in Banyoles is a closed down shop. Formerly a Pharmacy from a previous era, it has lain empty for three or four years, its pretty blue facade fading and the windows getting dustier and more cobwebby.

For some it is just an empty shop, to others especially the older residents it brings back memories of constipation remedies and truss fittings, but to me it is the portal to a dream.

I have long hankered after the life of a shopkeeper in a small town, my early years watching 'Open all Hours', or Alf Roberts in Coronation Street have remained with me as an idyllic way to pass the day. Smiling and greeting customers, exchanging a joke with the cafe owner next door, saluting the grannies as they stott about the market and flirting with the young mums would fill up the empty hours perfectly.

My problem is knowing what to sell, I always thought that a bookshop with attached tea room would be ideal, but Banyoles has two bookshops and numerous cafes, an antique shop would satisfy my hoarders instinct, as well as being appropriate for my dusty ,slightly disreputable old age. My eldest son suggested that I open an old curiosity shop, and make things for people to order in the back, a strange imagined pairing between Steptoe and Geppetto. Adam groaned and told him not to encourage me.

So I am no further forward, devoid of ideas, but full of possibilities, I could I suppose sell words, not written words and not books or magazines but single words. I may become the word expert, sought out by collectors from far and near, pretty words near the window, rude ones hidden under the counter, baby talk? Certainly, Madam, third shelf down, swear words in blue plastic covers, holy words in gilt (or guilt).

Mmmm must work on this idea, now what sort of bell should I have?