EMPORIUM (I.P. Jan.13th.)

- - It's just after closing time when I stop to look through the gold-leaf lettered windows of that intriguing shop known as The Emporium. Glints of shiny metal and sparkle prick my eyes as I peer through the Aladdin's cave of sultry shadows crammed full of weird little devices and tarnished gilt-edged tomes guarding their quaint old stories of bygone times.
- - Rows of dusty, musty little vases keep company with blown glass Victorian bottles and scintillating lead crystal decanters which splinter the streetlight like chandelier prisms. A rail of clothes like pantomime phantoms haunts the velvet shrouded vintage area, while here and there stocky old-fashioned chairs and tables form ungainly dining room suites, not beloved of anyone anymore.
- - "Antiques" jostle for attention everywhere the eye can see - from the mantelpiece knick-knacks to Oriental curiosities; art deco lamps and outgrown toys are all watched over by a sombre collection of dead men's paintings by the stained glass mirror.
- - Oh, but the beautiful jewellery - strewn so seemingly nonchalantly across the foreground of the window display is always my weakness. I can't pass by the shop without being tempted to splash out on some glittering accoutrement which I know I have slim chance of wearing, because nowhere in my life is worthy enough.
- - Deja Vu!.....What is it about all this organised, calculated diorama that suddenly strikes a chord in my mind? I look again - see little pots, some of mirrored mosaic glass, some cloisonne, all arranged in serried ranks with gilt ornaments, ceramic cats and dogs, the turquoise and carnelian beads and rings .......Ah! The Pharaoh King Tut springs to mind. Grave goods.
- - These were all people's things, belongings once loved and treasured - each one could no doubt recite sagas of long lost remembered days. There is a large diary type of book in there over by the wax lilies that I once glanced at tentatively and found that it contained thousands of hand-written poems. I heard that it once belonged to a solitary lady who died a recluse in that big old house in Mauldeth Road. Years and years, she poured her heart out into that book ......for what? Unsung genius borne on the epic journey into dust.
- - The five chess sets on the inlaid tables next to the moquette armchairs - they were hand-carved by Mr.Mottram, it is said, a frightened old man who hid from the world and never went out since the war. There's more of this: stuffed cats, old photos, violins never to be played by their Maestros again.....
- - I thought: Do these things whisper to each other in the quiet dark, dreading what their fate might be? The 'knocker boys' and dealers have done their bit - this is House-Clearance Theatre at its repectable best, a museum masquerade - in truth, a scrapheap of other people's lives.
- - Though The Emporium may continue to fascinate the Connoisseurs, spectres of vultures are never far away. I know now that whenever I walk past here in future - whether or not I have money to spend - I will never, ever feel the same about this place again.