She keeps walking straight ahead down one of the three extra-wide aisles that divide the store into departments. On her right is Ladies Wear, and as long as she’s not running late she’ll allow herself a few minutes browsing. It’s important to know what’s in stock. On any given day she might find a new range of sundresses, four different prints and ranging from sizes 6 to 24. Or a restock of the oversized t-shirts with retro band logos on them. Guns N’ Roses and Metallica and Def Leppard popular with both ironic teens and sincere fans like her. Today, she imagines the first of the winter stock coming through: thick woollen jumpers in rich jewel tones, and corduroy pants in dark berry and chocolate brown. She runs her hands over the fabric of the pants, pinches the thickness of the jumpers between her fingers, feels a surge of warmth and comfort.

But time is getting on—the others are already in the staffroom securing bags in lockers, finishing takeaway coffees. Nic walks on, glancing longingly at the Children’s Wear version of the new winter gear—darling corduroy pants with nappy-accommodating oversize seats; plush jumpers which look much like the adult ones but she knows will be made from one of the new-era synthetics that are flame-retardant and softer than wool but just as warm.

Onwards, past Shoes on her right and Electronics on her left. Ah, it makes her heart sing that they still sell DVDs and CDs. Funny how almost everyone who buys these supposed relics comments on their backwardness. Ah, yeah, I’m old school, hey. I know everyone’s doing Netflix or whatever but I can’t be bothered with all that. And Nic says, I know what you mean, and they feel like a rebel, a true iconoclast, not knowing they’re the eighth person that day who’s said it.

Almost at the back of the store now, she looks far to her left, past Electronics, where the edges of the next aisle are visible: Toys. Her very favourite, which is why she never walks that way if she can help it because how would she ever leave them? The delicate-faced baby dolls in slippery satin dresses and the bright, bold building blocks and darker, metallic engineering-inspired ones. The games with their boxes promising hours of fun for the whole family, and the army and spaceman toys which all have angry faces but sweet little moulded arms and legs, not to mention the tiny clothes—camouflage and space suits and all kinds of things with arm and leg holes smaller than her pinkie finger. The preciousness is too much. She looks away towards the edges of the abutting section—Homewares—another danger zone what with all the crates and filing solutions and pillows and lamps and—