‘Helmet For Sale. Owner Forced To Sell. All Offers Considered.’
Intrigued, I phoned the number.
“Yes?” She sounded tired.
“Five pounds?” I suggested, chancing it.
“Whatever … I’ll bring it round.”
I stood at the window, curious, but saw nobody. On a whim, I opened the door. There it was, inside an old shopping bag, a mighty weight.
The hall mirror beckoned. The helmet was a perfect fit … but the mirror melted, the wall was a weeping waterfall, the town became trees … an unbearable vision, a long-vanished world.
In mourning, I cried all night.
Next morning, I phoned my advert in.