ON THE RECORD

Then he thinks again. "I might." In the end he'll probably go. That couldn't-care-less attitude doesn't fully obscure a macabre curiosity to see how Hollywood interprets his working life.

It is fair to say that Peter won't expect to enjoy himself. Although the film, starring John Cusack, is set in Chicago, it is based on the best-seller by English author Nick Hornby. This tells the story of a manic-depressive who runs an ailing music store in a back street of Holloway, north London. The book sold by the bucketload. Nevertheless, Peter says, "it was complete rubbish".

"He'd obviously not spent any time at all working in a record shop," he complained, sitting behind the high counter in Cassadys, on Gillygate, clutching a mug of tea. Hundreds of LPs are arranged on shelves behind him.

"He might have hung around a few dingy shops in London to soak up the atmosphere but that's it.

"I think it's a dull little book. He doesn't capture the essence of working in a record shop."

The essence of Cassadys? Laid back. "I can't cope with it when it's too busy," said Peter. He describes life in the shop as "a lot of tea drinking and a lot of philosophy.

"It's the only work I can do. I couldn't do anything that involves stress or activity."

Because there is "more to life than this" he works part-time, as do the other three staff. On his days off, he paints. An exhibition of his figurative paintings in acrylic is due to be held at York Guildhall later this year.

Cassadys stock is brought in by people off the street. Peter can quickly sort it into music he can sell and music he can't. In the current reject pile are Sounds of Norway and The Mighty Wurlitzer. Sounds of Steam Volume 3 could stay because "some people might actually buy that".

The best sellers are rock and pop. Jazz, for some reason, does disappointingly badly. Collector's items are in stock, but Peter finds his York customers are cagey about paying a decent price. "They like a bargain," he says euphemistically.

Greg, a 30-year-old musician and rock journalist, is a regular at Cassadys. He describes it as an enthusiasts' shop. Peter agrees. "We have the best selection of vinyl in York and the most knowledgeable staff."

A customer who doesn't know anything about music might feel a little intimidated. But fellow shop worker Kevin McCaighy, 25, says even if you want the Spice Girls, they'll sell it to you. "We have no embargo on cheesy things. We stock Toni Braxton cassettes."

High Fidelity's fictional shop, Championship Vinyl, is dingy, filthy and chaotic. By contrast Cassadys, while no temple of interior design, is smart and clean, with one wall filled by a patchwork of album covers.

It was opened in 1985 by Ian Feasey, who still owns it. Peter, 51, joined the staff eight years ago.

He previously worked in a record shop in south London. Music has been an essential part of life from his Fifties childhood when he was driven spare by his parents habit of listening to the radio show by bandleader Billy Cotton - catchphrase "wakey, wakey!"

"That's what music was like in the Dark Ages, when England was in black and white," Peter said.

Then the Sixties - and The Beatles - arrived. "Suddenly they turned the colour on. Suddenly music meant something to my generation. It was about dressing up and having fun, not -" he spits the words out "- wakey, wakey."

Soon he was getting into "all kinds of stuff".

"It was the age of experimentation. We took drugs and opened our minds."

London "became swinging. Postmen were swinging down the road delivering letters, the milkman was swinging. We never stopped swinging."

And he swings on today. But that's what music is all about, Peter insists. By contrast, the print version of High Fidelity is peopled by loner misfits obsessed with finding obscure LPs.

"The thing about rock and pop music, you get into it because you are out there, you are living life, you're taking drugs, you're going to the raves.

"There's a buzz about music. It gives you your first social adventures in the real world.

"You may become sad and addled when you're 90 surrounded by ageing vinyl, but it doesn't start out like that."

Peter stops to change the music on the CD player. Out comes the Small Faces and in goes the strangely uplifting A Boy Named Charlie Brown, the soundtrack to the TV cartoons by Vince Guaraldi. "It's everyone's favourite music," he says. "It reminds them of their childhood, or in my case it was my teens."

In Nick Hornby's book, the second-hand record collector is portrayed as an exclusively male, compulsive list-maker who keeps his LPs in alphabetical order. Here, it seems, the author is finally on the right track.

Peter possesses thousands of LPs, yet can lay his hands on any album within moments. "Everything is alphabetical," he admits. "I did it when I moved into the house. I might pull one out occasionally but it goes straight back in."

Does he listen to them? Cue look of mock incredulity: "I don't play the records! That wears them out."

So why are they there?

"You sound like my mother. She visits once a year and looks in despair at my house.

"They're there because I have got them. They're there because they're increasing in value as we speak. I'm going to cash them in one day and disappear."

Well, it's more interesting than a private pension scheme.

Peter also jumped at the opportunity to make a list of his top ten all time favourite music. It was supposed to be a top five - the star of High Fidelity compiles top fives of everything from ex-girlfriends to conversations. But Peter couldn't restrict himself to five, so ten it is. The choice, he said, would change from hour to hour, from minute to minute, so don't consider it definitive.

And he agrees with Hornby that collecting records is a male thing. "Vinyl just looks horrible to women. You could never arrange LPs to look attractive as far as houseproud women are concerned, although that sounds terribly sexist."

"I know couples who have arguments about where their collections are stored," adds Kevin. And Peter sips his tea and we listen to Charlie Brown.