The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane. Jaimie Admans

footsteps of a middle-aged couple echo across the paving slabs as they walk straight past, not even lingering to admire the decorations like people used to when there were any to admire.

      ‘I’m sure those are the garlands that used to be draped from the ceiling.’

      ‘Nia, you’re obsessed. You’ve barely been away from that window all morning.’

      ‘Seriously, look. That new shop has got them around their window like a frame. They’re the same ones. And that nutcracker village. I’ve seen it before …’

      She’s gone off to tidy a basket full of wooden baubles that a customer has rifled through and I’m talking to myself. A customer leaves empty-handed, giving me a wary look as he passes.

      I am obsessing. I should be concentrating on our shop, not whoever’s over there and whatever they’re selling. It’s nothing to do with me.

      Although the door is wide open and it really doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside … I could go over and pop my head in, couldn’t I? Have a peep and see if the inside is as spectacular as the window display. If the owner does happen to be there, I’ll make an excuse of welcoming the new arrival to the lane. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly, after all …

      ‘Can you hold down the fort for a minute?’ I’m out the door before Stacey’s had a chance to reply.

      I run across the lane and stop in the open doorway. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, telling myself I’m trying not to startle anyone rather than I’m hoping there’s no one manning the place so I can have a nose around.

      No answer. I take a tentative step inside, feeling as light on my feet as a ballet dancer as I tiptoe in.

      Wow. If anything, the spectacularity of the shop itself is blocked by the spectacular window, because the inside is even better. Every wall is lined with a waterfall of twinkling white lights, a curtain of fairy lights that make it look like the walls themselves are sparkling. The shop is absolutely packed with decorations in all shapes, sizes, and colours, all lined up on chunky white shelves in perfectly size-ordered rows, like armies waiting to be called into action. There’s a metallic-y scent of glitter in the air, and every so often, a flake of fake snow floats down from the ceiling, while the music “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from The Nutcracker ballet plays quietly from a speaker in the far corner.

      I keep telling myself I’m not going to worry about the competition. Everything Stacey said is right, and all we can do is put all our effort in and hope for the best, but looking around this shop makes me realise we’ve already lost. It’s like stepping into a winter wonderland, and the feeling I get is probably not dissimilar to the feeling Lucy Pevensie got when she stepped out of the wardrobe and into the snowy lands of Narnia for the first time. It would be easy to spend a couple of hours and a couple of hundred quid in here. Heck, even I’m suddenly prepared to pay £300 for a Macarena-dancing Santa and I definitely don’t have any spare cash or appreciation for Hawaiian-style Santas.

      It’s weird that there’s no one here though. The light’s on out the back so maybe they’re still unloading goods. There’s plenty of space between shelves to fit more in, making it look minimalistic and still stuffed full of choice, unlike ours which just looks full because Stacey and I wanted to get as much stock out as possible and that means using every inch of wall space and getting as many display tables in as could reasonably fit while still meeting health and safety guidelines. I’d like to think our shop is relaxed, warm, homely and comforting, whereas this could be the set of a Christmas film.

      But that strange familiarity is back again. Those curtains of lights covering the walls look like ones that used to be hung around the entrance foyer of Nutcracker Lane, and there’s an LED mountain range – a huge stand displaying a range of snowy peaks from one foot to four foot tall at the edge of the window display with a £256 price tag. There cannot be two of those, and I’m almost positive this one used to form part of the backdrop behind Santa’s grotto.

      In one corner is a wooden crate full of soft toys that used to be given away to children who needed them. Now there’s a price sticker on the front – £16 each. I tiptoe further in for a closer look and find myself stopping to bend over the window display and peer at the mechanical nutcracker factory model. It’s playing a muffled repetition of the most recognisable bars of the first march from The Nutcracker ballet, and at the back, there’s a drip mark in the navy paint, which proves it. This used to be in a display stand at the point where the lane ends and there’s a short, covered walkway between the car parks for us and the nutcracker manufacturing plant next door. Why would it be on sale here? Why are any of these things on sale here?

      The more I look around, the more I’m sure of it. Whoever owns this shop is selling off the decorations that have been taken from Nutcracker Lane. Decorations that were once used to decorate this place itself.

      I back up and sidle along a shelf, looking at rows and rows of miniature snowglobes, metal reindeer ornaments, and wooden gingerbread men not unlike the ones I’ve been making with my CNC woodcutting machine in my garden shed workshop for months. Mine are four quid each and hand-painted, whereas these look like mass-printed Chinese imports with uneven eyes and wonky noses. I pick one up and read the price tag on the bottom.

      ‘Twelve quid for that!’ I put it down and step back quickly, except I don’t realise there’s anything behind me until something wooden hits me in the back. I yelp in surprise and turn around to see a six-foot-tall giant nutcracker staring back at me, wobbling precariously from the force of me backing into it.

      ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’ I try to catch it but the momentum is too much and the smooth wood slips out of my hand and it goes crashing to the floor with such a loud bang that people in France probably heard it, and a shower of gemstones from his elegant green-trimmed coat clatter down and go skittering across the floor.

      I squeeze my eyes tight shut and wish the ground could swallow me up. So much for a sneaky look around without anyone knowing. When I force myself to open them again to assess the damage, the giant nutcracker is lying on the floor surrounded by wood splinters. His left arm is broken jaggedly in two, and the broken bit has skidded across the aisle along with the sceptre he was holding.

      Oh no. Oh no. I love nutcrackers and he was such a handsome one. Longish furry hair that’s such a dark brown it looks black from some angles, a matching beard, and painted black moustache and eyebrows above almond-shaped white eyes with big brown pupils, red cheeks and a hint of the same red on the tip of his nose. He’s dressed in red with a green trim, navy cuffs around his wrists, black boots with gold accents, and a gold crown on his head.

      ‘I’m so sorry, you lovely thing. I’ll pay for the damage—’ I catch sight of a price tag tied around his unbroken arm and lean across to read it, turning the tree-shaped cardboard over in my fingers. ‘£926!’ I say aloud. I’ve never had a heart attack before, but I suspect this is what one might feel like.

      I’ve heard people use the phrase “eye-wateringly expensive” but this is the first time I’ve ever looked at a price tag and felt my eyes actually start to water.

      Nearly a thousand pounds. Every part of my body has tensed up. I cannot pay that. I’d struggle to find a spare £26 at the moment, never mind the £900 as well.

      I drop the price tag and look around in panic. There’s still no one here. Wherever the shop owner has gone, even the noise of the nutcracker falling hasn’t brought anyone running back.

      No one has seen me. No one knows it was me. If I just left …

      That £926 is pulsing in my head like a sign flashing in neon red. I’ve got so much stuff to buy to host Christmas for my family this year, never mind supplies to make stock, and food and presents, and in January, I won’t have a job. Not a proper job anyway, only my online sales and whichever craft fairs Stacey and I can get a spot at, not including the petrol it takes to get there. And that’s only assuming they’d let me pay it off in small amounts. The thought of being expected to find nearly a thousand quid right now