It wasn’t a grand adventure, or anything worth making a film about. Just a small thing that happened. But those are often the ones that stay with you, aren’t they?
This was a few years ago, during a weird season in my life when everything felt like it had been tossed in the air. I’d moved to London on short notice after finishing a job I wasn’t sad to leave, but also wasn’t quite ready to let go of. I didn’t have much of a plan. Just a suitcase, a few saved contacts in my phone, and a vague idea that maybe a change of city would knock something loose.
London’s a city that doesn’t care why you’re there. It just keeps moving, regardless. And at first, I liked that. I was renting a small room in a flat above a dry cleaner’s near Holloway Road. The windows rattled whenever a lorry went past. I could hear my neighbour coughing through the wall, and the heater made this tapping sound every time it kicked in. But it was mine, sort of.
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I filled my days with aimless walks and job applications. I’d go down to Kentish Town or cut through Finsbury Park with a coffee, pretending I had somewhere to be. Evenings were mostly me heating leftovers and trying to work out if it was too soon to call home.
One Sunday, I was meant to meet a friend from uni for brunch near Camden. She’d been in London a while, knew all the decent places, and promised she wouldn’t let me get lost. Naturally, I woke up late, knocked over a mug of tea, and had a minor panic over what jumper looked least like I’d just rolled out of bed.
The Tube was its usual weekend self—part closures, unexpected delays, and that collective sigh you only hear when a packed carriage stops between stations. I was crammed between a woman reading a dog-eared paperback and a teenager who kept adjusting their headphones. At one point, a man in a suit sneezed violently and then said, “Sorry, it’s hay fever, not the plague,” which made no one laugh but did break the silence for a second.
When I finally arrived at Camden Town, I was already 20 minutes late. My phone was at 12%, and I’d managed to get chocolate on my sleeve (don’t ask how). I sent a quick message to say I was close and started making my way towards the main street.
That’s when I saw this alley, not much more than a side lane. It had that look London streets get when no one’s tried to modernise them in a while. Slightly cracked pavement, bricks stained by time and rain, old posters flapping on a wall like they were trying to let go. I wasn’t in a rush anymore — I figured I was already late, so what difference would another minute make?
Down the alley, there was a small shop with a crooked wooden sign above the door: Needle & Thread Records. The paint was chipped, and the windows were fogged in a way that made it hard to tell if the place was even open. But the door creaked when I pushed it, and a soft bell rang above my head.
It smelled like dust and vinyl. And maybe a little like coffee. Inside, it was quiet in the best way. Not empty — just calm. The walls were lined with shelves full of old records, some in plastic sleeves, others looking like they’d been there since the shop opened. A couple of old armchairs sat in one corner, and next to the till, a tall man with a beard and mismatched socks looked up from behind the counter.
“You’re late,” he said. Not unkindly. Just like he knew.
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the clock on the wall. “Not for anything serious, probably. But you’ve got that look. Rushed, slightly flustered. Camden brunch plans?”
I raised an eyebrow. “How’d you guess?”
He shrugged. “People come in here when they’re early, or when they’re late. Rarely in between.”
I smiled, and he went back to sorting through a box of records. Some jazz started playing — not the kind I’d recognise, but warm and easy on the ears. I drifted through the shop, flipping through sleeves, not looking for anything. At one point, I pulled out a record with an old-style cover and no label. He glanced over and said, “That one’s got bite. Good for rainy mornings and black coffee.”
I bought it, even though I didn’t have a record player. Still don’t.
“Hope brunch is worth it,” he said as I left.
It was. My friend had already ordered pancakes and a Bloody Mary by the time I got there. She listened to the story, shook her head, and said, “You always find the oddest little places.” I tried to find the record shop again a few weeks later. Walked up and down the alley where I thought it had been. Nothing. Maybe I got the street wrong. Maybe it had closed. Maybe it was only ever meant to be there that once.
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The record’s still with me. I moved flats since then — twice, actually — and I keep it on a shelf next to a couple of books I never finished. Sometimes I think about finally buying a player just to hear what’s on it. Other times, I kind of like not knowing. There’s something nice about holding onto a bit of mystery, especially when everything else in life is so eager to be explained.
And maybe that’s the thing. London is big. Loud. Rushed. But sometimes, in the middle of all that noise, there’s a small, quiet moment that sticks. Something unexpected. Something unrepeatable. A shop. A stranger. A record with no name.
Nothing life-changing. But not forgettable, either.
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