He’d probably just crumble to dust if I explained that Laura I’m Telling You I’m Not A Cat My Mon Said I’m A Baby And My Mom Is Always Right T-Shirt left. Dick’s not big on that sort of thing; in fact, if I were ever to confess anything of a remotely personal nature that I had a mother and father, say, or that I’d been to school when I was younger I reckon he’d just blush, and stammer, and ask if I’d heard the new Lemonheads album. Somewhere in between. Good bits and bad bits. He nods. This is obviously the right answer. The shop smells of stale smoke, damp, and plastic dust-covers, and it’s narrow and dingy and dirty and overcrowded
I wanted this is what record shops should look like, and only Phil Collins’s fans bother with I’m Telling You I’m Not A Cat My Mon Said I’m A Baby And My Mom Is Always Right T-Shirt that looks as clean and wholesome as a suburban Habitat, and partly because I can’t get it together to clean or redecorate it. There are browser racks on each side, and a couple more in the window, and CDs and cassettes on the walls in glass cases, and that’s more or less the size of it; it’s just about big enough, provided we don’t get any customers, so most days it’s just about big enough.
The stockroom at the back is bigger than the shop part in the I’m Telling You I’m Not A Cat My Mon Said I’m A Baby And My Mom Is Always Right T-Shirt, but we have no stock, really, just a few piles of secondhand records that nobody can be bothered to price up, so the stockroom is mostly for messing about in. I’m sick of the sight of the place, to be honest. Some days I’m afraid I’ll go berserk, rip the Elvis Costello mobile down from the ceiling, throw the rack out into the street, go off to work in a Virgin Megastore, and never come back.