Chetan and Chirag

“The next stop will be Leytonstone. At this stop the last set of doors will not open and you must choose – your children or your dog?”

Hotcake stepped off the train amidst a flurry of no-one who wanted to go to Leytonstone. He strode through the empty station – why did contacts have to choose exclusively shit-holes for meeting places. He passed the ticket barrier and found himself in a corridor taking him to street level, the walls of the corridor tastefully decorated with mosaics recreating famous film scenes. He screwed up his face into various contortions of disbelief as he was confronted with bizarre tile reconstructions of the bomb-riding scene from 'Dr. Strangelove' and an oddly poignant rendering of the anal rape scene from 'Pulp Fiction'.

In a state of mental disarray, Hotcake arrived at street-level and on Leytonstone high road. After a forlorn look at his watch he discovered he was half an hour early. He strode powerfully, he was powerful in his long coat, up the street passing a disreputable Bureau de Change, a surly butcher and, looking small and afraid next to Gregg's the bakers, the most dilapidated shop he had ever seen. 'Chetan and Chirag useful empoureum' read the sign held above the door by some sort of gravity never previously encountered.

Compelled by confusion and – chiefly – boredom, Hotcake carefully grasped the decaying door and went inside. He had braced himself for bafflement but had not expected to be bombarded with it on such a scale. Once inside he was immediately confronted by a moudly, black, wooden counter and standing behind it two men, both staring at him with a mixture of delight and fear. Both were very thin with wild eyes and large beards. One stood around seven feet tall with gaunt cheeks and long hair falling limply and framing his long face. The other was still more puzzling – fully stretched out he would have been as tall, if not, taller than the other but he was bent almost into a U shape – upon seeing him, Hotcake immediately saw life from the perspective of this man's spine and felt sad and broken. The next most striking thing about the second man was his face – he had bought it from Albert Einstein and bought his eyes from party-Rasputin.

The straight man spoke first:

“He is Chirag.” He announced excitedly.

“He is Chetan.” Grinned Chirag.

“This is our shop.” Cried Chetan and Chirag in unison, throwing their arms in the air.

“We sell anything.” Said Chetan.

“BUT – most certainly NOT everything.” Warned Chirag, waving a stern finger.

The degree to which Chetan and Chirag prided themselves on the obscurity of their products would soon become delightfully obvious.

“Browse!” They barked together.

Hotcake walked, absorbed by wonder, to a shelf packed with boxes of varying shapes, sizes and states of decay. One small box that immediately caught Hotcake's eye proclaimed itself to contain 'Beaver Wax'.

“What's 'Beaver Wax'?” Enquired Hotcake.

“Have you a beaver which will not fit through the hole for which is was intended?” Asked Chirag in return.

“Then you need Chetan and Chirag 'Beaver Wax' for the least co-operative beavers, of all shapes and sizes!”

“I see. And what is this?” Asked Hotcake indicating a small spherical object with a point on the bottom.

“It is a pencil...” Said Chetan

“Shaped like a satsuma to remind you of satsumas for when you have none.” Smiled Chetan.

“And these, what are these?”

“They are glasses...” Grinned Chetan, waiting for Chirag to reveal their delightful hidden function.

“Glasses with pictures of sumo wrestlers on the inside lest you forget.”

“Lest I forget what?” Asked Hotcake, this latest proclamation raising his most fashionable eyebrow.

“Sumo wrestling.”

Further enquiries revealed, among other things, 'Weasel beards', a model of the Taj Mahal imprisoned within an almost unbreakable, opaque black box and posters for spiders to look at whilst they were waiting in their webs – "we think they are so lonely" sighed Chirag.

Hotcake found himself totally unable to leave the shop without purchasing myriad of products from his host, mostly because they were so charmingly oblivious or unconcerned with the incredible uselessness of their wares. He left clutching a tub of beaver wax, 'Peanut Ears' ('for the amusement of rodents') and 'Octosocks' – or socks for a stylish Octopus.

Upon exiting the shop he found he had missed his meeting by a whole hour and so promptly hurried back to the tube station and soon found himself back on the platform. A train arrived (as they did and do).

“This is Leytonstone where you will marvel at priests.”

The train left with a growl which surprised even itself.