If you were to come into the shop right now you would find me on the floor behind the counter in the corner, knees hugged into my chest as I rock gently back and forth muttering incoherently into my unkempt hair. No, maybe that's not where I am. Maybe I am standing on the roof wearing army fatigues and waving a sniper gun around as Matthew and Adam try to gently coax me down into the street. Or possibly I am nowhere near the shop at all as have run off down the road past the bemused market stall-holders rending my clothes and screaming and shouting at the insanity of it all.
OK, OK, so actually I am sitting behind the counter, a model of neatness and calm, tapping away at the computer. But inside I am all of these cliches of madness. I just tried to order a copy of 101 Dalmations and it has gone OUT OF PRINT.