Stereotyping again. I saw this shop, which would fit in any period drama, a pawnbroker down a dark alley. I expect to walk in and find a dusty and grimy wonderland, shelves and cabinets overflowing with an antique dealer’s dream. The owner will be a wizened old man with a monocle for peering down at Great-Aunt Gertrude’s ruby ring, which I must sell to buy food for my sick baby. Nope. The guy’s maybe thirty-five. Portly and red-cheeked with sideburns that put McCreadie’s to shame.
