Some time ago, I came into possession of an object, which precipitated a series of quite unbelievable events. Since that time, I have tried to brush the occurrences off as terrible dreams or some temporary feverish state but I can do so no longer. I now have to admit to myself that what I am about to describe truly happened and I must ask you to believe every word of it.
I have spent much of my working life as a dealer in vintage consumer goods. As a young man, my hobby was to collect items of packaging from long-forgotten brands, a packet of powdered soup, for example, or a tub of face cream. It seems odd, looking back, that I felt such profound nostalgia for a past I never experienced but, as I grew older, my hobby became an obsession.
After I left home, my first apartment was soon filled with these relics that were once commonplace for previous generations. My floor piled high with cereal boxes and beer bottles, radios and disposable razors until, eventually, I could contain the collection no longer.
I was at this point that I began to sell items off. I found other like-minded collectors online to whom I could sell, each with their own specific interests. One had an unrivalled display of 1970s bubble bath bottles, another filler his shed with late-20th century telephones. I established a network of sources who could scour the country on my behalf, attending fairs and markets to pick up items that may be of interest to my clients.
