EVERY NEW JOURNEY STARTS SOMEWHERE

I left home with one clear intention this morning; buy the exact same shoes I've worn into the ground. Again. Third pair in four years. Same shop. Same brand. Same black canvas lace-up. They go with my mostly black wardrobe, and they work as hard as I do pounding the streets of London.

- A short story by Josie Silver

The shoe shop is tucked away down a quiet back street, but as I turn the corner I spot a dusty glass door propped open, despite the October chill. It was boarded up last time I was here, I'm sure, graffiti sprayed over the nailed-on boards. I peer inside and find myself slowing to a halt, mesmerised.

It's a tiny glassblowing workshop, a heat haze shimmering in the air. Metal racks line one wall, and at the centre of the space, a woman in denim cutoffs and a purple vest pulls a rod of molten glass from a small furnace. I watch her twirl and roll the glowing orb with the skill of a circus performer, her dark ponytail swinging as she blows softly into the rod. I take a step closer, enthralled as she inflates the delicate glass, coaxing it into life.

The studio is a micro-world of heat and colour and light, and I hold my breath as the woman dips the rod into a fluted mould and then reinflates the glass, assured of her own ability. It's a dance - confident, unhurried - and as she spins and twists, a turquoise and green crystal pumpkin appears, as if she has conjured it out of thin air.

She crowns it with a small molten bead and pulls it upwards like spun sugar, twirling it with the practised confidence of an artisan patissier to form a looping, trailing stem. Her expressive, freehand signature. She smiles as she lays her tools down and pushes her glasses up over her head to inspect her work.

"You can come in if you like," she says, without looking up.

"My pumpkin patch," she smiles.

"They're gorgeous," I say, drifting towards them. "Have you been here long? I've never noticed this place before."