When I was 14, I got an after-school job in a little stationery shop. I liked being there. Stacking pens and erasers, unspooling ribbons, organising the packets of greeting cards in their thin plastic sleeves. The shop was small enough that I could stand in one spot and see everything. There was a regular customer who owned a shop nearby. A man probably pushing forty with a partner and little daughter. He’d crash into the shop with an energy that made me straighten up and give him my attention, almost before I’d even fully registered the sound of the door swinging open.