In a lost corner of London,
just outside the East End, lies a faded bow-fronted shop.
No-one ever visits, but if you were to push open the
creaking door and step over the piles of unwanted mail, you
would find, in the dust-laden darkness, row upon row of
shelves stuffed with trumpets, tubas, cornets, trombones,
clarinets, drums. Each time one of the instruments is
played, it tells a story. A different story every time.
This is the Marching Band Emporium.
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