Tea?’
‘Yes, please. But I don’t want to get used to it,’ I call to him as he disappears out the back. ‘I want to go back home.’
‘And you will do,’ George says, sticking his head back around the door, ‘just as soon as we find out what the best route is to get you there. Excuse me a moment,’ he apologises, as a phone rings out the back and he disappears again.
A man comes into the shop with a young boy. He nods at me, so I smile at him.
‘I’m looking for a birthday present for my son,’ he says, mistaking me for an assistant. ‘He loves his music, and so I thought I’d bring him down here to the King’s Road to buy him a gift, something a bit different. Can you recommend anything he might like?’
I stand up slowly, desperately trawling my brain for bands from the sixties, but only the obvious springs to mind. ‘The Beatles?’
‘Nah, he has everything they’ve done, don’t you, son?’
The boy nods.
‘I think he’d like something a bit different.’
I look desperately to the back of the shop; the sound of the ticking clock, usually so calming, suddenly becomes painfully loud.
Oh, please hurry up, George!
‘Let’s see now…’ I say, stalling for time. ‘Erm, how about The Kinks, perhaps… Or maybe The Who? They’re great sixties bands, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know,’ the man says, looking at me oddly, ‘you’re supposed to be the expert!’
‘How about the Rolling Stones?’ I hear a knowledgeable voice behind me say. ‘They’re a new band, but very popular with those in the know.’ He comes up beside me and taps the side of his nose, then he winks at the young boy.
‘I haven’t heard of them, have you, Richard?’
His son nods. ‘I have actually, and I’d love a record by them. What do you have, sir?’ he asks, looking keenly at George.
George grins and pulls a couple of 45 records from a display.
I sit back down on my chair. Apparently I know as much about sixties music as I do about living in the sixties, and that isn’t a lot.
The father and his son eventually find something they’re happy with and pay for their purchases. George has managed to sell them a few other bits while they’re here, too, and Richard is looking more than a bit pleased with his collection of birthday gifts. George shuts his till happy with his latest sale, and bids them farewell.
‘Goodbye, Richard,’ he waves as they open the door to leave the shop.
‘Thanks, sir,’ Richard says happily. ‘You know, one day I think I’d like to own a record shop just like this one.’
‘That’s a fine ambition to have,’ George smiles, ‘and I hope you achieve it, young man. Goodbye, Mr Branson,’ he says to Richard’s father. ‘Do call again, won’t you?’
I stare with disbelief at the departing figures. Then I shake my head. Hold on just one minute, have we just sold records to a young Richard Branson – the future multi-millionaire and owner of the Virgin group?
‘Do you know who that was, George?’ I ask, still staring at the closed door.
‘Of course, Mr Branson and his son Richard – he left me his card.’
I turn and look at George. He returns my look with one of complete innocence.
‘I’ll get that tea now, shall I?’ he asks.
George returns with our tea and sits down next to me.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say apologetically, ‘with the bands. I obviously know nothing about music.’
George grins. ‘Actually both those groups you suggested would have been great recommendations for the young boy, but you’re about a year too early, Jo-Jo, they were both formed in 1964.’
‘Ah! Bit difficult for you to sell their records then, eh?’ I grin. ‘Seems like I’m ahead of my time, George! Unlike now…’ Then my smile fades. ‘Wait, how do you know about those bands if they’re not together yet? In fact, how come you seem to know so much about what’s happening to me?’
‘I don’t know that much. Not really. I just know that for
‘Yes, please. But I don’t want to get used to it,’ I call to him as he disappears out the back. ‘I want to go back home.’
‘And you will do,’ George says, sticking his head back around the door, ‘just as soon as we find out what the best route is to get you there. Excuse me a moment,’ he apologises, as a phone rings out the back and he disappears again.
A man comes into the shop with a young boy. He nods at me, so I smile at him.
‘I’m looking for a birthday present for my son,’ he says, mistaking me for an assistant. ‘He loves his music, and so I thought I’d bring him down here to the King’s Road to buy him a gift, something a bit different. Can you recommend anything he might like?’
I stand up slowly, desperately trawling my brain for bands from the sixties, but only the obvious springs to mind. ‘The Beatles?’
‘Nah, he has everything they’ve done, don’t you, son?’
The boy nods.
‘I think he’d like something a bit different.’
I look desperately to the back of the shop; the sound of the ticking clock, usually so calming, suddenly becomes painfully loud.
Oh, please hurry up, George!
‘Let’s see now…’ I say, stalling for time. ‘Erm, how about The Kinks, perhaps… Or maybe The Who? They’re great sixties bands, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know,’ the man says, looking at me oddly, ‘you’re supposed to be the expert!’
‘How about the Rolling Stones?’ I hear a knowledgeable voice behind me say. ‘They’re a new band, but very popular with those in the know.’ He comes up beside me and taps the side of his nose, then he winks at the young boy.
‘I haven’t heard of them, have you, Richard?’
His son nods. ‘I have actually, and I’d love a record by them. What do you have, sir?’ he asks, looking keenly at George.
George grins and pulls a couple of 45 records from a display.
I sit back down on my chair. Apparently I know as much about sixties music as I do about living in the sixties, and that isn’t a lot.
The father and his son eventually find something they’re happy with and pay for their purchases. George has managed to sell them a few other bits while they’re here, too, and Richard is looking more than a bit pleased with his collection of birthday gifts. George shuts his till happy with his latest sale, and bids them farewell.
‘Goodbye, Richard,’ he waves as they open the door to leave the shop.
‘Thanks, sir,’ Richard says happily. ‘You know, one day I think I’d like to own a record shop just like this one.’
‘That’s a fine ambition to have,’ George smiles, ‘and I hope you achieve it, young man. Goodbye, Mr Branson,’ he says to Richard’s father. ‘Do call again, won’t you?’
I stare with disbelief at the departing figures. Then I shake my head. Hold on just one minute, have we just sold records to a young Richard Branson – the future multi-millionaire and owner of the Virgin group?
‘Do you know who that was, George?’ I ask, still staring at the closed door.
‘Of course, Mr Branson and his son Richard – he left me his card.’
I turn and look at George. He returns my look with one of complete innocence.
‘I’ll get that tea now, shall I?’ he asks.
George returns with our tea and sits down next to me.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ I say apologetically, ‘with the bands. I obviously know nothing about music.’
George grins. ‘Actually both those groups you suggested would have been great recommendations for the young boy, but you’re about a year too early, Jo-Jo, they were both formed in 1964.’
‘Ah! Bit difficult for you to sell their records then, eh?’ I grin. ‘Seems like I’m ahead of my time, George! Unlike now…’ Then my smile fades. ‘Wait, how do you know about those bands if they’re not together yet? In fact, how come you seem to know so much about what’s happening to me?’
‘I don’t know that much. Not really. I just know that for
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