I used to call this place the Syrups since everybody else did. I assumed it had something to do with the fact I only ever bought sweets here. It wasn’t until years later that I was told it was because the owner had a not-very-convincing toupee sat on his head, as black, shiny and hemispherical as half a bowling ball. Cockney rhyming slang for wig is ‘syrup of figs’, by the way. I hope you’re keeping up. A narrow, cramped Smithdown newsagents, this place has the bizarre talent of still possessing whatever you want at the drop of a hat. Also, since the bullet-proof glass is no longer there, I take it the crime rate is improving.