Saturday afternoon.
Central Soho.
Rain hammering down outside.
The comic shop is packed.
Everyone upright.
Polite. Civilised.
Not us.
We’re on the floor.
In the way.
Knees on concrete
Digging.
The shop assistant asks us to budge over.
We shuffle.
Then carry on.
Because this is where the gold is.
Three plastic tubs
Stuffed on the floor.
Last ones.
Weird. Indie. Overlooked.
Riso ink. Stapled spines.
Tactile paper. Strange titles.
Matilda pulls one out - Egg.
Holds it up like treasure.
“You’ve gotta get that.”
This is as close as we get.
Heads bent together.
Scanning. Discovering.
Urban adventuring.
Then I spot a David Shillinglaw zine.
I’d been eyeing online just days before.
Honestly - I don’t know why or how it is there.
You don’t find that kind of thing standing politely at eye level.
Sometimes the best lesson you can teach your child
is how to search differently.
Even if the floor is hard.
Even if you’re in the way.
Even if you look a little crazy.
Especially then.
