As a child I had a rich fantasy life – too rich, I was often told. But my fantasies were important to me, especially the ones about what I would do or be if and when I grew up, which I was in a great hurry to do. In retrospect I can’t remember ever wanting to be a train driver or an astronaut or Superman. The fantasy I remember best is the dream of having a little shop. It sounds unlikely now, but it wasn’t then. My dream of becoming a small shopkeeper must have been inspired by weekly shopping trips with my mother to our local high street, which had about twenty establishments. Each one had a proprietor behind the counter, very much interested in pleasing the customers. We knew their names, and they knew ours. They kept humane and sensible opening hours, closing for two half days each week and all day on Sundays. There were big shiny stores in the city with famous names, like Selfridge’s and Harrods, but I had no interest in owning one of them. What I wanted was a little shop. The