The Record Shop on James Ave
I met Phil in a record shop.
Central London; a cesspool for ditsy tourists, daytime wonderers, women with dogs in their handbags and money to spare, busy businessmen rushing to whichever underground station was close enough to a 'Costa Coffee' and the sounds of horns accompanied by sirens haunted the air. All of this, however, became muted at the moment I met the eyes of the peculiar looking man called Phil—or Phillip if we're to be formal.