One of the great things about London is that you can really use your lunch hour. A couple of weeks ago, for instance, I got to help a handsome young shop assistant with stock-taking in the basement.
"Are you sure your boss doesn't mind?" I asked, as we hurled around the changing room.
"Oh, he's out at the moment - and he's fine about this."
I noticed from the boxes that we burst open that this was a shoe shop. He explained that he was a cobbler by trade, and spent most of his time hammering leather in their warehouse, but helped out in the shop on an occasional basis. When we'd finished, I went upstairs, and his boss was back (one of those gently moustached Elder Gays).
"Ah," he said, "You must be Chris's lunch."
It was then that I looked around the shop properly. As well as a lot of boots, it contained rather more harnesses and corsets than your average shoe shop. A cabinet reassured me that I was in a rather unique antique sex shop. The cabinet contained a fetching display of "Victorian Urethral Expanders".