Dear Reader,
There is a shop near my old home in Hackney that sells a vast assortment of very unremarkable shoes. It is run by an old man with a well-kept moustache and a pair of sensible glasses. I would often pass this shop and see him sweeping the floor, or wiping a shelf, or angling a pair of shiny brown dress shoes so that they were perfectly parallel with the angle of the wall. I never, not once, saw anyone else in this immaculately kept place, or witnessed a sale in action. And each time I passed and saw this sombre proprietor in his crisp, collared shirt waiting for a customer that wouldn’t come, it made me want to cry.
I think of this man often and wonder if he has sold any shoes.
I wonder, too, if he is still trying so hard, despite it all.
I’ll be the first to accept that I am pathetically emotional, but I must admit it: I am completely undone by such examples of human courage. Ordinary people, day after day,
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