Tim Derbyshire before his shop closed

AS you sip your morning cappuccino in one of the million places to buy post-£4 coffees in Soho, what I am about to tell you may seem unimaginable.

But it was only a decade ago when you could walk along Hanway Street and browse through a cavern stacked full of vinyl records.

On The Beat was known as London’s oldest record shop and the thrill would always be not knowing what you would find in there.

The search was part of the fun, a world away from our robotic transactions now which dictate which songs we listen to – and those we will never get the chance to unearth.

The shop wasn’t the only place to wile away a lunch hour searching for a lost album or a record a couple of pounds cheaper than Tower Records in Piccadilly Circus or the garish Virgin Megastore on the corner of Tottenham Court Road, but it was one of the best.

Not least because it was clearly a labour of love for its owner Tim Derbyshire, who once told the Extra that he had accepted that selling LPs and rare seven inches would not pay for expensive holidays but it covered the rent and that was enough for him.

As in return he got to indulge in his passion, chat with fellow enthusiasts and always be on the edge of discovering another lost gem. Ten years ago, however, it was time for him to move on and he made headlines by putting the shop up for sale on eBay, hoping for a record collector to step forward and keep things more or less as they were. It is a shame his appeal to find somebody who would love it as much as him was unsuccessful.

“If you’re at the stage in your life when you don’t have to worry about making money but can live the bohemian life, meet interesting people every day and the occasional pop or rock star, here’s your chance to take over the oldest record shop in the centre of Swinging London,” the auction listing said.

This blurb could tell you so much about the way London has changed, where every building block must be used for maximum profit and this usually means wildly overpriced ways of filling our faces.

In that context, why would anybody care if these streets no longer have melodies emanating from record shops, and I should say too, laughter and chatter from the backstreet pubs we lost along the way.

Mr Derbyshire could see the writing on the wall, telling me back then: “The West End is becoming faceless, so if nobody takes it over it’s just going to turn into another coffee shop or nail bar or something.

“People always ask what the most valuable record is, but that’s not the point really. It’s the atmosphere of the shop, the character, that has evolved all through these years and it would be a shame to let it all disappear.”

But, of course, it did disappear, replaced by somewhere to eat.

An hour sifting through boxes in central London is now an ancient pursuit as the city becomes increasingly drowned in the chase for the barista gold: coffee, coffee and more coffee.