The ironmonger was my father's domain.
He was perpetually engaged in DIY projects
involving vast sheets of hardboard to cover up
all those pesky Victorian panelled doors
and polystyrene tiles to insulate our frigid bathroom.
I liked going there chiefly because Mr Glickman
kept a box of Maltesers under the counter
and when the last brown paper bag of nails
had been spun by its corners
he would slide the red box across to me.
One was taken. Never more.