After this elaborate and might I say tiring night with my benefactor I started the day as a shop-clerk in Mr. Hubbard's store. It was his intention to have me work behind the counter selling watches and taking in broken ones before being allowed to touch the internals of the delicate time-pieces. It is his opinion that I need more experience feeling my way through polite subtle human interaction before I can learn the subtleties of machines. For the life of me I can't figure out why I have to learn about people before I can learn about machines but at this point in time it seems better to play along. Early the next day I woke up in the room that would mine from then on.

Yes it is small but it must be said that it is very comfortable indeed. Mr. Hubbard had arranged the room to allow one desk for studying and a bookcase loaded with what appeared to be ancient tomes. A smaller closet to the left of my bed held my meager belongings. I always get up very early, must be a remnant of living with my father. Very quietly I made my way downstairs, trying not to make a sound when I passed Mr. Hubbard's room, which was in the center of the upper level on the right. It must be said that I had never seen this store from the inside by daylight and the only other time I had seen it was when it was dark. Clocks were ticking everywhere and created a muted yet powerful ambient noise that takes quite a while to get used to. The store is at the end of a cul-de-sac that houses a number of shops. Mr. Hubbard had left me a note on the front door that contained a shopping list for that day's groceries. At this point Sebastian came in to claim something he said the old man still owed him from last night. It is really a separate story to tell what happens when he didn't get his way immediately but had to wait until the afternoon. After he had left and after I had managed to stop the clocks from chiming I made my way out to obtain the needed groceries. Looking around I noticed that all of the supplies could be obtained from any of the stores in the small square.

There was Chanderloin the butcher who's store was immediately to the left of us. Next to that in an even smaller store that looked like it had been burned down several times, was Harold and Myers booksellers since time has forgotten. Harold had passed away and so had Myers. Instead the purveyor of fine books and manuscripts was owned and managed by Myer's grandson Harold Meyers. Harold himself must be in his 80's by now or close to it. Leaning against the bookstore with only a slightly brighter shade of black could be found Fineley's bakery. The bakery formed the left corner of the cozy impasse and that was quite fortunate. Every morning Fineley got up at 4 in the morning to bake his daily bread. To keep the temperature down in the building and to let out the moisture that was created by yeast, dough and mother nature, the door was kept open for a couple of hours each day. No breeze or wind were needed to envelop the entire area in a strong smell of freshly baked bread. Sometimes his opposite neighbour on the other corner would top him by also opening his door. Given the fact that this shop sold fish, you can image the sensory clash this could produce. Even though Mr. and Mrs. Vandermeer could make the place feel like a fishmarket all by themselves, they were generally much liked. Their store had a large window that overlooked Fleet street. Some years ago they made the window even larger and turned it into some sort of stall. Besides the smell of fish that could make ones eyes water, Mrs. Vandermeer had the ability to make your ears ring with her wailing advertisements for fresh fish. Poor Miss Grub, she was a fragile and sensitive creature. Not very old, maybe in her late forties but appeared very much a ratting bag of bones. She owned the linen and needlework store. Actually you could buy anything related to textiles, sewing and fabrics there. Many tailors would consult her on the latest fabrics from the Far East or would order needles made in Russia where the steel is stronger. When talking to you she would squint through tiny glasses and address you as if you had done something wrong. She could never keep track of whom she was talking to especially when she was working on some complex order. In this state of mind she tended to stuff the knitting needles in her hair she was cataloguing. At the end of the day she could be seen with dozens of knitting needles sticking out. Mr. Fineley would often shout: "Been busy Miss Grub? looks like you've been on pins and needles all day". Fineley often said things of this sort. He imagined himself quite clever with words. Usually his wife Edna would throw out something from the back room like: "If you were as clever with your words as with your bread it would sell like hotcakes". Lastly between the linen store and Mr. Hubbard's in a dark red tint and with flamboyant sign above the door: Welder's Wine, for the finest in all of London. That the wine was good must indeed be true judging by the type of customers that frequently visited. For years Welder had tried to become supplier to the royal family but had not made it into the palace. He was so convinced this would eventually happen that he had a sign made that indicated his status as palace frequenter.