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.

I remember it so distinctively. I was browsing through the copies of new albums, not quite chart hits but the kind you would find on an artsy blog on Tumblr, or in an aesthetic image on Pinterest, artists like Arctic Monkeys, Paloma Faith, Marina and the Diamonds, and more were all at my very fingerprints in this tiny shop hidden away in the very debts of the busy city. These were my favorites, I was partial to trying to look "cool" on the internet and I generally gravitated to the more "abstract" and artistically different musicians, rather than a bit of Britney Spears; recently, however, I had fallen in love with a band called "Peace" whom I can only describe as being one of the only bands I knew who were trying their upmost hardest to bring back the swinging sixties—and it's something I certainly applaud them for; they were, what the kids called "lit."

Phil meanwhile was looking for something more specific, in particular, he was looking for a Beatles record—this limited edition Abbey Road picture disk of which he had attempted to find online, but to his avail couldn't find one bellow a solid fifty pounds.

We met in the midst of my own clumsiness. I had perhaps bitten off more than I could chew when I came in here fresh after payday, and with seven new records stacked messily atop of each other, I attempted to make my way towards the cashier desk, when he had the idea to ask the poor employee if he had the record at the same time; and while my mind was busying itself thinking about how brilliant these new singles would sound on my record player back home in the center of Wimbledon, I must have forgotten a certain something called "seeing" and collided against the 6'3" beanpole that is my now boyfriend.

He was actually quite rude, to begin with.

Snarky comments like, "Look what you're doing for fuck's sake" happened to be the first thing I heard as he folded his arms in irritation.

I, scared to offend, apologized, and even offered to help him look, and we ended up looking through the streets together; we got a tube to Camden in the end, this mission had become more of a fun venture, and all other plans were ruled out for this very important task.

We never did find that picture disk.

I like to think he ordered it online when he got home and dealt with the extensive cost, however, the lack of a mention ever since just proved me otherwise, he had given up.

But luckily 2017 was the year for me. And my income had increased significantly from the last two years, I could do something good for him.

And so, on the seventh of December, after struggling to buy him anything, I had an idea, and I brought him the disk. I found it in the record store that had previously failed us, The Shop on James Ave.

And I only spent forty-five quid!