I’m a member of two or three James Bond themed pages on Facebook. Last night, on one of them I came across a reference to some kind of 007 shop in an arcade off Piccadilly. This naturally pricked my interest, and today I decided to go check it out. Getting there would be easy enough, as it looked like it was only a short walk from Green Park station.

Indeed it was. I must say, though, I’m not sure I’ll go that way again in some time: Piccadilly is teeming with toffee nosed snobs who think nothing of stepping right in front of me, and then accusing me of going too fast. And when I found the arcade, Burlington Arcade, I was staggered by the sheer opulence: it was like stumbling upon some kind of alternate reality where everyone was a billionaire.

The good news is that the arcade itself is wheelchair accessible. That slightly surprised me to be honest, as those old Victorian arcades in central London often have steps into them. However, it seems that a ramp had been built into the old steps. That was where the encouraging part ended, as none of the shops in the arcade were fit for wheelchair users – the doors were too narrow.

Sadly, this also went for the shop I had come to check out: from the outside, it looked like it was chock full of cool Bond memorabilia, and I even heard the theme from Goldeneye playing in the background. There were so many lavish 007-related pieces of merchandise it looked awesome. But I quickly saw that there was no way I could get in, let alone negotiate the three floors that the shop occupied. There was nothing I could do but look through the windows at all the model Aston Martins and Golden Guns.

After a few minutes of this, one of the members of staff from the shop came out and asked if I was okay. Naturally I replied that I was, so he asked if I wanted a drink. There were a few tables outside the store which customers could sit at.

Temptation suddenly shot through the glass roof above me: a martini there would surely be fantastic. I began to type that I would love a vesper, but then realised that he wasn’t offering it for free. At that point I asked the price, and was told it would cost £24. Given too that it was only 2pm, and I had yet to nagivate my way home, I quickly changed my mind, declined the offer and went on my way.

In all, then, it was a redundant, disappointing trip. But, as a Bond fan, at least I now know where the shop is, ready to return when my thirst for a decent martini grows too much.