If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

Daily Writing prompt #14

I have done this and I would do it again. If that counts. If it were possible, I would do it in a different decade to the early 90’s that I chose.

The first few years of my married life were spent abroad, and when we returned to the UK, the area of south London we moved to was mostly chosen by the suitability of the trains into the city for my wife’s job. 

In our local high street was a record shop that I used to frequent and give them a lot of my money. I became friends with the owner, and at the moment he mentioned he was thinking of selling, I jumped in and became the owner of a record shop. Which means I spent a lot more time there, but I spent less money in record shops. Instead, I gave it all to record companies. 

In some senses, it was the perfect job. It was necessary to play music all day, to talk about music, to read about music, and buy a lot of music. Not always music you personally liked. The first year we were the owners, the Christmas number one was Mr Blobby. 

It was also possibly not the best time to purchase a record shop; supermarkets like Tesco could sell the top forty CDs cheaper than I could buy them from the record label because they used them as loss leaders. I did consider selling baked beans really cheaply to see how they liked it, but I figured they wouldn’t notice. 

It was also the time of Napster and Limewire, and rather than discussing the latest releases, the young were discussing how many downloads you could get for free. It felt like the beginning of the end. 

Despite all that, it was a fun few years of my life. I have drank coffee with Aimee Mann (promoting a new album) for an hour while she chatted away with us and refused to leave because we were the coolest guys she had met all day. 

Des’ree, at the height of her fame, would visit her mother and drop into buy some music on her way past. The endless free gig tickets from record labels to get us onside with promoting their latest surefire hit was a nice perk.

In the first few months, a customer whose job was proofreading novels gave me a draft copy of High Fidelity by Nick Hornby, and it felt like I was reading about myself.

The day we went to the police station around the corner to report, we could smell gas, possibly coming from the next door restaurant, and were worried. Two screaming fire engines, and the loud mockery of firemen later, as we learnt that the smell of damp wood from the property behind us was the reason. 

And yes, it does smell very much like gas, and well, sir, it is probably the fact that it rained a lot last night that caused that. Oh, and of course, they do store a lot of wood, what with it being owned by a carpenter and everything.

The constant betting amongst the staff of what would be a hit. The endless squabbling to earn the right to choose what we played next. The knowing that you would never make a fortune, but it was still fun.

Christmas Eve was the maddest day of the year, and we were almost trying to force the door closed at the end of the day as one more person just needed to get something for their mother. Who, clearly, you love so much, that you have left it until now to get her that album she has always wanted. 

When I left, a CD album cost £13.99. I recently saw a brand new vinyl copy of Fleetwood Mac Rumours album for £24.99. Which not only makes me question my decision to get out, but also makes me wonder: who the hell doesn’t already own that album — let alone on vinyl?

It came to an end when I sold up. A pub chain offered to buy out my lease, and the landscape was already looking bleak for independent record shops. 

I would do it again. In fairness, it would need to be something like the early 80s. It would make me more money, but we would probably still be arguing over what we played next.