don't ever go back,

It is almost two years since I touched the stainless steel handle of 103 Manchester Rd. Felt the weight of the glass door swing open. Doffed my cap at the rainbow on the lovely wooden floor.

After I left the shop space remained empty for a whole year before the letting agents paved it with carpet tiles and moved into the property themselves; they couldn’t make it more depressing - and colourless- if they tried - a huge television hung on the wall, desks, a sofa I presume for potential tenants to take a load off while - I don’t know - deposits were taken never to be seen again, or documents with small print drawn up? In hindsight I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest this row of shops may be a front for some light money laundering… I’d always had my suspicions about my neighbours either side and the nature of their cash-only enterprises but my time as a purveyor of artisanal incense and sourdough bread sidestepped this scheme carefully. I’ve seen enough breaking bad to know when not to ask.

After the letting agents brief stint of squatting in their own property, they up and went just as quickly as they’d moved in, and the space was again empty for some time until RUMA moved in, the now current offering, ‘aesthetics’ being their business- your guess as good as mine here - but my search engine tells me this covers laser hair removal, maybe botox? Tattoo eyebrows? Blading?

They’ve gone heavy on the white tiles, with a greek vibe, white desk in the corner, fake plant, etc. Aesthetic aesthetics.

I’ve been listening to my audiobook so not fully realigned myself with the volume of life as I step within the confines of my old shop. Picking my earbud from my right ear and fumbling with my phone at the same time, I smile as I look towards one of the two young girls within the aesthetic emporium. There is also a small child on an iPad sitting on the green velour couch. “Hi, I’m Nicola” - pause - in case they’ve heard of me - surely - maybe - “this used to be my shop” - looking around at both girls.

One stands up from her little desk, she is an uncomfortable level of tan, which looks almost painful. Her body is stuffed into an all in one - would you call it a jumpsuit? A bodysuit? Playsuit? I am having flashbacks of wearing a baggy linen jumpsuit on days working in the shop alone and needing a poo, going to the back toilet behind the counter and stripping down to my skin, squeezing out the fastest log and praying to the gods that a customer wouldn’t come in before I had time to line the buttons up, tie the waistband, and hope my knickers weren’t rolled into a croissant around my thighs. And this girl here is chancing her arm with a skin tight spandex number with no VPL. Mind you she does have another member of staff and maybe doesn’t get much fibre in her diet.

She looks at me as if I have actually just announced I used to do poos in the back.

“I just wondered if you had any mail for me?”

“Um - I can check?”

Honestly is this the kind of thing you just know or don’t know. She humours me by walking to the back, and probably counting to three, or checking her tan in the mirror for streaks, and coming back.

“I can’t see anything” of course she can’t. Eyelashes, babe.

“Oh right - it’s just I had this book delivery that was meant to come to my new address and I got a notification to say it came here” halfway through this sentence she literally might have just placed both her hands by the side of her face and mimicked the sleeping signal, like you’d do to tell a baby you’re going to sleep now, and closed her eyes to fully switch off - terrified by this collection of words, verbs, adjectives that I have put together, which may as well be in Turkish, she doesn’t know, because they are coming from someone extremely odd -and tanless - and wearing such baggy clothing - she needs me out of here immediately.

“She’s not here, it’s her day off, but I can ask when she’s in” this lazy way of talking, I’m assuming she’s referring to her boss, or the owner, or maybe Ruma herself? Who knows.

“Ok” and I look at her handbag which has a brown envelope sticking out of it, and wonder in what version of my book I walk over to her little bag and ask her what that is, and then grab it, to find out it’s an Amazon parcel containing one of those brushes that tames flyaways or little hair elastics to make one of those neat hair plaits that all the bitches wear or maybe gym socks to wear over the top of leggings from Adanola or some other made up TikTok brand, anything but the delivery of Sara Mangusos which I am expecting to be - for some reason - in this hun’s bag?

“Bye!” She doesn’t even bother smiling, or maybe she can’t.

There have been other times that I came close to going in, or stopping to stick my hand through the letterbox to grab at random bits of post I could see gathered on the floor. Apart from the fear of looking mental, which I’m fine with, I didn’t want to invite the anxiety back in. I was so careful when closing, following perfect due diligence with each supplier - water, wifi, electric - I notified them each in due course letting them know of my end of tenancy - that if I were to see - let alone reach through a small gap in a door under duress and grasp- a letter with my name on it I might vomit or faint.

There was a time within the first 6 months of opening the shop that I was put on a heart monitor because of palpitations but it coincided with the coffee pot we purchased as a stop gap before our espresso machine and I realised I had been drinking whole litres of coffee as if it was water, and then coming home and binge watching Line of Duty with my husband on the sofa. I also went through a massively stressful battle with BES energy that caused me many, many sleepless nights. Once all three factors were dealt with it was no surprise that the cardiology department was happy with my readings and I could carry on as normal.

I also fell in a pot hole one other time while walking past the shop and looking at the shutter, which was half up, and turned my ankle so badly that I cried and cried, and my kids had to help me home. I feel like life offers metaphors and potholes and you can choose to see them or choose to ignore them and it doesn’t really matter either way. You often miss the important ones and make a crappy story out of the ones you don’t miss.