I drove into Newcastle this morning to visit a new client. Rather than fight for a parking space in the City Centre I dumped the car on the far side of town and took a long walk through Westgate, an area which I haven't visited since my student days.
As ever, Charlotte Square was teeming with office workers, all looking for respite from the interminable summer heat although they were plainly disappointed. The usually crowded seating area had been taken over by a dozen or so old drunks, several of whom were crashed out on their favourite benches, the remainder content to spend their day screaming obscenities at anyone foolish enough to look in their direction. I took a long, long diversion around that lot.
Walking down the leafy streets near Old Eldon Square, I decided to visit one of my favourite haunts, a shop I fell in love with for a whole bunch of reasons when I first went up to University. Sadly, I was in for a shock. The front door was firmly locked and a huge 'To Let' sign had been crudely hammered into place high up on the main facade.
I stood on the steps outside and looked up at the empty, faded windows, and at the pile of bills behind the front door. And I felt my heart sink.
Let's step back in time nearly twenty years. It's May 2004 and my twin sister, Sophie, is visiting me at my digs in Jesmond. She graduated some years before and has a steady job in York but is up here for a break from the turmoil that is her love life.
Sophie is presently re-discovering her inner Goth. For her, everything is black. Black hair, black clothes, black nail vanish.
She dragged me into a new shop she'd discovered earlier that morning. It was at the rough end of town, the kind of place that only poor and impoverished students would infest. Home from home, really.
Now, even though I'd said on many occasions that Goth wasn't my style, she was convinced that I might find something to lift my mood a little. University was not an easy experience. I was older than most of my class mates, didn't really fit in with any of the usual cliques and had become somewhat lonely and sullen.
As Sophie fought her way through row after row over-stocked shelves and crowded racks, I suddenly came face to face with one of the shop's managers. She was about thirty, perhaps closer to thirty five, slightly taller than me, and decked out in the usual wannabe-Vampire attire. I wondered if Anne Rice had started giving out fashion tips. Scruffy jeans, baggy t-shirt, hair dyed to match her boots. That said, I only noticed her clothes afterwards. What struck me first and foremost was her eyes. Deep. Black. Intense.
And that was it. Zing. An immediate exchange of thoughts and ideas, and the closest I've ever come to genuine telepathy.
Our eyes locked and we just stared at each other for what seemed like minutes.
Wow.
The feeling didn't last. Before I knew it, Sophie was dragging me by the arm towards the back of the shop. I have no idea what she was babbling on about or what she was trying to show me. I wasn't interested. Not at all. My mind had dissolved into a kind of semi-conscious fugue, perhaps trying to make sense of what had just happened.
When I came to my senses, I turned and scanned the shop for any sign of this woman. Alas, she'd gone. There was no sign of her.
In time, we left the shop but not until Sophie had blown more than she had in her purse on a bondage skirt that I thought looked utterly hideous.
On the way home, I told Sophie what had happened. She wasn't surprised. She'd seen the look on my face. I asked for advice. Sophie just shrugged her shoulders and frowned. This was well outside of her comfort zone. She was utterly straight and had no concept of the whole bisexual thing that seemed to be such a major preoccupation for me.
Later that night, in the wee small hours between wide awake and fast asleep, I decided that a return visit was required only, this time, I'd be on my own and free of any possible distractions.
I knew that most of the shops in that quarter of the town were in the habit of closing on a Wednesday afternoon, usually for stock-taking or staff training or just for bunking off down the pub. I decided to skip one of my extended Lab sessions and took the bus into town instead.
I timed my arrival perfectly, walking through the shop's front door about twenty minutes before the shutters came down.
The racks were pretty full - a slow week I guess - and what was on offer didn't really appeal but I found one or two full length dresses that might just about work in the right context. There are always posh events going on someplace around campus and I decided I might need something to wear in the unlikely event that I found myself invited to one academic function or another.
Alas, and to my dismay, my quarry was nowhere to be seen and, disappointed, I was on the point of leaving when she suddenly came charging down a flight of stairs with both arms full of stock.
"See if you can find room for these," she said to the assistant behind the till. "There's no room out the back and no room upstairs either."
She dumped the garments on the hapless assistance and turned to face me. I don't think she recognised me at first and she more out of politeness and a need to get rid of some of the excess inventory than anything else.
And then, slowly, her expression changed as she began to recollect our earlier meeting.
I took the two dresses and went to the changing rooms at the back of the shop. The first was a pretty good fit in all of the right places but the second was awful. It did nothing for me. Outside, I could hear the assistants closing the shop down for the afternoon, followed by a series of "Goodbyes" and "See Ya tomorrow".
I returned to the racks to find something else, and walked straight into the Manageress. She smiled except, this time, the smile wasn't forced or merely polite. Instead, it was warm and heartfelt.
"Can I help?" she asked.
