Henry’s voice floated out from the back office. “No no, just shot it. Say half hour? … Bonza.” “Bonza?” I queried. “What’s bonza?” “Henry’s getting us a Sotheby’s catalogue mocked-up,” Pete explained, peering at my creaky till, face scrunched like a half-chewed toffee. It was a crisp Sunday morning. Numb fingers buzzed around Starbucks paper cups, breath fogged in the damp shop air and the counter wore a pile of fat Sunday papers like loft lagging. The fire-escape was wedged open to to try get rid of the funny smell, traffic honks and the hum of shoppers floating in on the freezing wind. All in all, a Sunday morning for breakfast in bed, full strength radiators, fluffy dressing-gowns and quiet thanks for not being brought up Roman Catholic. But here I was, surrounded by strangers in a damp, dusty shop, shivering under the warmth of a faulty strip-light. “We’ve got a helpful printer dropping our item into a genuine … ah-ha!”
