Gnomes or Wizards: You Decide

                             Gnomes or Wizards: You Decide

“Hello, Joseph. How is the world treating you?”

I was standing at the bar in my favorite watering hole in central London, holding a large whisky and soda. I felt I needed it; I was on the verge of another painful bout of lumbago.

“Paul, good to see you. In answer to your question, things could be better. In this economic climate, that’s probably true for most people.”

“Let’s sit over there in the corner and catch up. What’s your poison?”

I ordered two double whiskies. As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help commenting on his appearance. “Joseph, the last time we met, you had a large, angry red rash on your left cheek. How did you clear it up?”

“It’s an odd story. About a year ago, a friend introduced me to a shop run by two families of little people—or gnomes, rather. It’s an exclusive place; prospective customers can only enter if an existing member introduces them.”

“How bizarre!”

“I had visited a couple of times and met them, though I hadn’t bought anything. They sell various pharmaceutical remedies alongside other goods. When the rash flared up, I decided to go back. Two of the gnomes were behind the counter. The clerk didn't even ask why I’d come; he simply looked at my face and called across the room: ‘Zook, bring me cream P123.’ He handed it to me and said, ‘Apply a generous layer morning and night, and it will be gone in three days.’ That was five days ago.”

“Tell me—I feel a flare-up of lumbago coming on. Do you think they could treat that?”

“I don’t see why not. They have a devoted clientele who rely on them for everything from sleep disorders and romantic troubles to digestion and muscle pain. Need I go on?”

“Could you introduce me?”

“Certainly. I can’t guarantee you’ll be approved, but I don’t see why you wouldn't be.”

“Where is this shop?”

“Over near Notting Hill. I can take you tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Let’s meet at ten tomorrow morning at my flat. Now, as the Walrus said: ‘The time has come... to talk of many things: of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—of cabbages—and kings—and why the sea is boiling hot—and whether pigs have wings.’”

And so we did.

The next morning, Joseph and I stood outside the premises. Calling it a shop seemed misleading; it looked like a converted industrial warehouse. There was no signage, only two high windows tucked beneath the eaves. Beside the heavy entrance door hung an electronic keypad.

Joseph turned to me. “I have to enter my name and account number.”

A moment later, an intercom crackled: “Who is the gentleman with you?”

“A close friend I’d like to introduce,” Joseph replied.

The latch clicked. Stepping inside revealed a space that was indeed a shop, though unlike any I had seen. Above us, a vast glass roof gave the impression of standing beneath open clouds. The interior was divided into four quadrants: pharmacy, floristry, books, and vinyl records, all separated by wide aisles lined with comfortable armchairs. At the far end hung a partition screen bearing a stylized emblem of a human footprint. Several gnomes bustled about, neatly arranging stock.

Within minutes, a manager approached us. He was compact in stature, with an open, friendly face and a hearty laugh. “Good to see you, Joseph. I see the cheek has healed.”

“Thanks to you, Zook. I came by to thank you and to introduce Paul. He’s suffering from a bout of lumbago, and I thought you might work some magic.”

“Magic is in our nature,” Zook replied with a smile. “However, he must first be vetted for membership. Step into my office and we’ll complete the intake form.”

The application proved remarkably thorough, requesting standard contact details alongside queries regarding medical history, legal troubles, and household pets. Once finished, Zook dispatched the document through a brass pneumatic tube into the upper offices.

While awaiting approval, Zook explained their business structure. Two brothers and their extended families operated the enterprise—a staff of twenty in all. One branch termed themselves magicians; the other, wizards. Each wore distinctive tunics. The wizards curated the botanical and literary sections, while the magicians oversaw the apothecary and music.

A chime signaled the return capsule. “Splendid,” Zook announced. “You are registered under account 4567. Now for the back. Apply this ointment four consecutive nights before sleep, and use this linen dressing to protect your bedding.”

We left shortly after, my mind racing with questions about the unusual operation, though eager to see if the remedy would deliver.

At the time, I was living with my partner of several months as a trial before discussing marriage. While I loved her dearly, daily life revealed her to be high-strung and brimming with restless energy, likely driven by her demanding role as a director at a multinational fragrance house.

When she returned home that evening, she listened to my account of the warehouse with affectionate skepticism, likening it to an elaborate film set. Still, she happily took on the role of nurse. After four nights of compresses, the back pain vanished entirely.

To celebrate, she arranged a lavish dinner with champagne. “Set the table with the good candlesticks,” she called out before heading to the office. “I’m looking forward to a long evening together.”

Her departure left me reflective. I was middle-aged, comfortable, and content, yet our physical intimacy often felt rushed, tense, and exhausting rather than affectionate. It occurred to me that the shop might offer a gentler remedy for domestic harmony.

By noon, I was keying my new code into the warehouse door. Inside, sunlight filtered through ceiling shades, casting geometric patterns across the floor.

I located Zook and shared the success of the lumbago treatment before confiding my romantic dilemma.

He listened with a knowing nod. “A common complaint. We can certainly help. First, you will need music to set an unhurried tempo. Then the wizards will select a botanical arrangement with a soothing, subtle aroma.”

Zook selected an LP of rich, melodic compositions, then escorted me to the floral department. There, four wizards conferred over stem varieties before presenting a striking arrangement. “Keep them well-watered and they will bloom for a fortnight,” one advised with a wink. “We are always here when you require a fresh arrangement.”

At eight that evening, my partner arrived home with her customary whirlwind of energy. She immediately noticed the candles, the champagne, and the centerpiece.

“The flowers are magnificent,” she murmured.

The delicate fragrance filled the room, carrying a subtle, calming warmth. As she leaned in to breathe in the scent, the perpetual tension in her posture softened entirely. She turned and kissed me with an unhurried tenderness that caught us both off guard, leaving us quietly breathless on the entryway bench.

“Let’s have dinner,” I whispered.

Over the meal, her usual restless cadence was replaced by a serene, easy warmth. Afterward, she took my hand.

“Come into the sitting room,” I said. “I picked up a record today.”

We sat together on the sofa, the rich orchestration filling the room with an easy, magnetic rhythm. The evening unfolded into hours of genuine warmth and unhurried closeness—a ritual that soon became a cornerstone of our life together.

I became one of the shop’s most loyal patrons.

David Nutt                                August 2026