The interior of the House of Ming was total chaos. It was crammed full of overflowing cardboard boxes and these cheap storage units covered in all sorts of junk. On the nearest shelf I could see a row of anti-dandruff shampoo next to some cut-glass swans, then there were some crystal therapy gift packs beside some toothpaste with Arabic script all over the box. Immediately in front of me stood a dump bin advertising the Rugrats movie; however, the bin itself was full of socks, not Rugrats socks, just black nylon socks selling at £1.99 for ten pairs. Slumped on the floor next to the dump bin sat an exhausted cardboard box full of books. I knelt down and had a quick rummage, hoping I might find something interesting, but it was full of celebrity autobiographies, diet books and self-help manuals; the usual cultural sewage. I was just about to sack it and go and meet Jim when a massive tidal wave of nostalgia knocked me off my feet. Next to the books, propped against a grubby pillar, stood a pile of Sea Monkey kits. Sea Monkeys. I hadn’t seen them for total yonks.
