Day 488

Camden seems vast to new eyes but it is so much more.
Sprawling streets, crowded with typical tourist goods and oddities alike.
Full of secret corners too where strange shops lie in wait for their customers.

One such place can be found only at 7:53pm on Fridays.
The specificity of the time is odd but shops of its' nature are often found like that.
Many like it exist within the labyrinthine streets of London, few are remembered post-visit.

Their merchandise is always somehow useful, lifesaving at times and life-ending at others.
This shop contains a mixture of the two and no way to tell the difference.
Still they'd never had a complaint (or a repeat customer but they are hard to find after all).

Most days of the week the shop is a wall and it's owner runs a shoe shop many streets away.
Some locals theorise that Friday's seller is a mirrored copy of the shoe-seller.
They all claim to have spoken to her but never remember her name.

It becomes a rite of passage for them to visit these shops and make it back out.
They say that if you can do that then you are accepted by Camden, declared its' denizen.
Some sellers boast their purchases from these places, others refuse to speak of them.

I remember accidentally stumbling into one of these shops as a child.
My parents were distracted by a Thai food seller after a long trek to get to the bustling area.
I followed paving slabs that sparked with bright colours, beckoning me to follow.

Left after right after left I went, curious and excited.
Eventually I found that I had reached the end, looking around to see myself standing at a kiosk.
Thick purple curtains hung from the walls with bright red hooks poking out, holding toys.


The owner was a portly man, heavily tattooed and wearing a battered Keith Richards shirt.
I remember him being kind, being so funny but I don't remember him moving at all.
The shop itself was a large-ish shed from the outside with a steep staircase leading far down.

There were so many pretty lights down there and the man said I could go take one if I wanted.
Something about those lights seemed off to my six year-old self and I politely refused.
Thinking back he seemed so surprised, I doubt any other child had said no before.

When my parents found me I was standing by an iron horse statue clutching half a teddy bear.
I still have it, you know, though the stuffing has all fallen out and the fur is discoloured.
Thirty odd years later and I've never found him again.

Asking around, it seems I'm the only one who's been to him and come back so much later.
The only one who's lived to adulthood, any others who've returned are either comatose or dead.
They are always found holding part of a teddy, are always holding a copy of Peter Pan.

Seems he finally grew up.