wonder when you last visited your local chandlery? In your dreams it may still be a place of romance manned by a chap, probably of a certain age, wearing a brown overall. As you walk in and step onto the scrubbed planks, your senses are assailed by the scents of the ancient kingdoms of the sea. Pungent Stockholm tar, the creamy aroma of fresh cotton sailcloth, a whiff of paraffin, sweet beeswax and an indefinable dustiness, all set off with a faint hint of distant mildew. Behind the wooden counter scarred by a million knife-scores, sit phalanxes of small drawers containing
