Ever since we moved into our neighbourhood some twenty years ago I have followed the same weekday and Saturday early morning ritual of buying my newspapers at the newsagent’s shop on the corner of my street. It has been my first reality check of the day. Over the years, the owner, Pascale, and her clients (for we all know each other) have – briefly, fleetingly – discussed local, national and international affairs, from the latest alleged bêtise of Prince Laurent to the state of the world economy to local crime and unemployment, and so on. Her clients are a mix of city workers of one sort or another (the shop is on a rat run into the city) and local people (there is a bus stop just outside the shop). Pascale has been much more than a shopkeeper. The postmen drop off their big sacks in her shop. She holds our big parcels for us until we can pick them up.  And, like Taseer on another corner in the same street, she ministers to her flock. We have also, inevitably, followed Pascale’s life – the sad death of her mother, her sons’ passage to adulthood, the dogs (a labrador and a basset hound), new love, and a beautiful baby and now, alas, her decision to shut up shop and lead a new life. We are all so very happy for her and so very sad for ourselves. Today is the shop’s last day and, characteristically, Pascale is offering all her clients breakfast and, this evening, an aperitif. We are all bereft. Verily, all good things must come to an end…