Uncle George was the most honest person I knew, but that didn't mean he couldn't spot someone who was trying to con him.
Uncle George was in the back room when the shop bell jangled to signal my arrival. ‘Be with you in a moment,’ he called. ‘It’s only me,’ I answered, as I squeezed through the maze of wardrobes, sideboards and sofas. Most people would have called it junk, but Uncle George insisted every item was a genuine antique, or it would be – one day. ‘How’s business?’ Uncle George shrugged. ‘Terrible. The Internet’s killed this trade. I’ve only had about a dozen customers all week. And none of them were big spenders.’