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Banksy's latest masterpiece resonated with me today after visiting the Village Manor Bakery in Waterhead (just off the A62 near the 82 bus terminus, if you are passing). At only one mile from a Tesco, this traditional bakery bucks the trend fantastically by creating fabulous bread, cakes and pies without resorting to the dreaded Chorleywood Baking process that industrial bakers use to make that doughy stuff they sell in supermarkets as bread.
Banksy may be having a pop at the whole plastic bag thing but, to my mind, it is all linked. I simply think back to the days of the corner shop when my mum sent me with a string bag to collect her bread: two uncut white and an uncut Hovis (please Mrs Day).
That childhood errand sums up the difference between the shopping experience then, when I would nip to the corner shop for cold meat, bread and cakes; cross the road to go the greengrocers and then nip up the road to Ashworth's butchers for a pound of skirt.
I do miss the ease and availability of local shopping as it was. And that isn't simply nostalgia but rather regret at the sort of world we had where people knew your name when you went in the shop (I hope it's not just me who can hear the theme tune from Cheers playing in the distance).
When I collected my Mother in Law's bread this morning, I couldn't help but notice that despite the queue out of the door (there is always a big queue) the staff still had time for the many older people who are known by name as they collected their own regular order. They also asked me how my Father in Law was getting on; I've only been in three or four times to collect his bread since he has been ill, but they remembered me.
That's service!
Had you asked me last week whether I liked Pickering, I would probably have replied that I didn't know: never having pickered. That was last week; and at the end of last week Mrs C and I spent three nights in our country residence (pictured) just outside the North Yorkshire town of Pickering.
Despite trying to dispense with its sleepy market town image - according to some websites - Pickering's entire charm is exactly that: sleepy Yorkshire market town. It has one supermarket and many real shops: a fishmonger with its own smokery at the back, a greengrocer, butcher and baker all selling local produce; it also seems to have a quaint barter-type economy between local traders: I witnessed the petshop owner exchange a pint of maggots for three bags of Lamb's Lettuce with the greengrocer (who was a fisherman, just in case you were wondering).
The fish lady (and I was tempted to say fish-wife) was a typically blunt (to the point of being ascerbic) Yorkshire woman. Whilst I was choosing from the fabulous range of home smoked fish she said to me,
"Are yer just looking or are yer going to buy summat lad, only I want to get this fridge cleaned out".
I bought summat; and it was lovely.
There's something restorative about clean country air; as Mrs C, the dog and I sat sipping a glass of wine outside our temporary home in the twilight surrounded by candles, I wouldn't rather have been anywhere else.
P.S. Sorry I didn't let my loyal readers know we were going away, only I didn't want our local burglar William (Billy to his friends) calling round and have him feel the wrath of my two burly sons.
The Everything But Shop was the unkind - in my view - title given to Woolworths, the high street store that sold, and still sells, everything...but what you want. I recalled this after bagging a bargain this weekend: electric cool box, half price, reduced from £60 to £29.99. Ha! I said to myself, Woolworths' detractors can scoff all they like, but I for one will defend dear old Woolies to the hilt. Imagine then my chagrin when I discovered today that only two days later they had knocked a futher fiver off the price. Not one to turn down a fiver when there's one going, I paraded back into the Oldham store with a boxed 25litre electric cool box and recipt under one arm; picked up another under the other and marched smartly up to the till demandeing fair play of the three or so bored assistants waiting for home time (this was at 17.25h...they shut at 17.30h).
I explained that I simply wanted to return the cool box I had bought on Saturday and then purchase the second one at the lower price of £22 (actually that's a seven pounds difference isn't it...even better).
"You can't do that" replied the first assistant,
"Why not? You have a no quibble returns policy don't you." I boldly asserted,
"It's not right, bringing something back just to get more money off" she replied, obviously oblivious to the meaning of quibble.
"What if I hadn't delivered two cool boxes here, but returned one, got my refund and then walked over there and picked up the other, what would you have done then?" I persisted,
"I don't know, but it's not right" she said digging in her heels. With the scent of blood in my nostrils I rose to the fight and parried,
" Who do I have to see then to discuss your company policy on no quibble returns", I was getting a liking for 'quibble' and tried to effect a Mr Bean voice as I said it.
"Brenda", she replied
"Brenda?" I asked,
"Brenda, upstairs" she added helpfully. Her colleague reached for the telephone,
"I'll ring Brenda' she said. I folded my arms and stubbornly stood my ground, ready to do battle with Brenda from upstairs.
As we were stood, one of the other assistants idly eyed my receipt and then nonchalantly reached over and pressed down the telephone button, cutting off the Brenda call. I felt a chill run up my spine at the way she matched my gaze eye-to- eye as she did so.
"You were only charged £22 for this on Saturday" she said, her quiet calm voice clearly audible over her suddenly silent colleagues. I blustered that I was sure I had been charged £29.99, but in my heart I knew the battle was lost. I gazed folornly at the receipt thrust under my nose and picked up my cool box.
"Right then" I said, turning to leave, head bowed. Then I had a spark of inspiration:
"How do you know I'm not the mystery shopper testing your knowledge of company policy on returns and no quibble guarantees" I said, and walked smartly away, that got them.
So, normally when I write about a store or product it is by way of a cheeky invitation to offer me an incentive to return; on this occasion it's simply to humbly say: I was wrong - and I don't like it.
I am not noted for my sartorial elegance, nor for my interest in fashion matters; but, whilst crossing Manchester city centre the other day, my eye was caught by two young people dressed in what I would term Oxfam chic. The phrase deriving from the need of young people to dress stylishly, yet affordably, by searching out second hand clothes emporiums and charity shops. Indeed this was a method of clothing I adopted whilst a student nurse - though, if you ask Mrs C, it was more Oxfam than chic. I was known to wear an ensemble consisting of a RAF great coat, boilerhouse overalls or any other combination of mismatched, discarded garments adopted and adapted from Oldham's flea market. So it was with a fond smile that I viewed these two happy young people tripping carefree through the city streets. Until, that is, I spotted the carrier bag over the arm of the pretty young female; a bag emblazoned with the logo of Viviene Westwood.
"Isn't she one of those fancy expensive designers?" I asked myself; and getting no comprehensible reply hopped off to the expensive part of town to do some journalistic research on behalf of my readers.
Stepping out of my comfort zone (Marks and Spencer) and into the hallowed halls of Harvey Nicholls (where I felt I ought to pay just to cross the threshold), not finding what I wanted and having the burning gaze of people who could tell at a glance that I didn't belong, I left and continued my research in the classy part of town around King St and St Anne's Square. There I found Hervia; a quick peep through the window and I knew immediately that the down at heel appearance of my two student types was nothing more than an expensive copy of the real thing.
Needing reassurance that all was not lost in the world of clothes, I trecked back across town to the seamier, but far more interesting area around Oldham Street - where, incidentally, sits my most favourite of shop names: a body modification and piercing parlour entitled 'Holier than thou' - and went into Affleck's Palace the home of alternative clothing, alternative jewellery, alternative music and alternative haircuts. I sighed happily, transported for a moment back to my youth, as I saw that Oxfam Chic still existed and far surpassed the expensive imitations of King St.
I don't know where you stand on your local high street, but no matter where you stand in Oldham's town centre you can not escape the view of a national or global retail outlet of some sort - I use that term deliberately because I simply cannot bring myself to call them shops. To me shops are warm friendly places with character rather than the sterile, vacuous places aimed at taking pounds from your pocket and putting them, with very little removed for the benefit of the employees, into the pockets of the, already, super rich.
There are only a handful of shops in Oldham: Mawson's herbalist, Mrs Zippy's Sewing and Joke Shop, Williamson's Ironmongers and Hardware emporium at Mumps. These are the places with character: where else can you buy a new zip for your jeans, a fake turd and a pair of false boobs in one trip; where else can you receive honest health advice from a qualified herbalist who doesn't want to also sell you the chain store magazine and where else can you buy anything whatsoever in the tool or hardware line. These places have struggled to survive and, in the case of Mawson's and Williamson's come through to produce a diverse business without losing their character. Their keepers - and again I deliberately choose that term; there is in my view, a world of difference between a shopkeeper and sales assistant - deserve our support. So if you happen to be passing through Oldham and need a fake nurse outfit or fake cigarette with a convincing puff of talcum for smoke, call in at Mrs Zippy's.
And so to Fathers Day; there are times when I am proud of my two sons. They are accustomed to my moralistic rants at the television - "Dad, stop shouting at them, they can't hear you and we're missing the next bit" - and they sigh, not always inaudibly, when I start to express my opinions. Just occasionally though they do something that demonstrates that they understand me rather better than I give them credit for. It would have been easy for them to nip along the real ale aisle of Tesco, choose a half dozen bottles such as Black Sheep or Old Peculiar; and I would have been happy. What in actual fact they did buy me was this:
A mini cask of Dobcross Bitter from the artisan brewers at Greenfield Brewery not three miles from here. Local craftsmen, not making a fortune but producing something that, in my view, is worth a fortune.
Well done boys; now all I have to do is convince them that it is far more worth drinking than the tasteless, seven or more, pints of lager that they effortlessly dispatch at weekend.
There has been much talk this week about Britishness, Chancellor of the Exchequer - and soon to be Prime Minister - Gordon Brown has been talking about the need to teach Britishness to potential new citizens of the UK. I thought I would take the opportunity to examine some of the things that the British do.
A slight increase in my mobility has meant the opportunity to get out, so out we went - shopping. So we'll start by examining one of the great bastions of the British way of life: Marks and Spencer. Because I do not have optimum shopping mobility I had the opportunity to dispassionately observe what makes Marks, as we fondly call it, so special (some may argue that the role of dispassionate observer is the default setting for a male shopper).
Our choice of Marks is a large out of town affair, on a large retail park accompanied by an Ikea, Toys 'R' Us and a B and Q. In addition to its other merits, the one level layout suits me at the moment. Our shopping strategy was well thought out; V. parked me on a thoughtfully placed chair by the door while she went on reconnaissance to identify potential purchase targets.
Sat in the poor-mobility seat it was easy to observe fellow customers and form some idea of what makes Marks. My crutch and Frankenstein's boot marked me out as an object worthy of sympathy, this delivered by way of indulgent smiles, nods and encouraging comments: "You won't be buying socks then".
That was the first thing that defined the Marks' experience: people are so nice - and that is the, very British, word that sums up the Marks and Spencer experience: nice; like a good cup of tea is nice, or a day out at the seaside is nice; understated, comfortable and pleasant, just nice.
But these nice people seemed quite narrowly defined. Their clothes may well have been the result of the last trip to Marks'. For men: shoes not trainers; trousers not jeans; shirts not tee-shirts. For women: smart trousers or skirts; if jeans are worn they are designer jeans (not Marks' jeans interestingly; though if men wore jeans I think they would be Marks'). The women have nice make-up and nicely cut hair - not obviously stylised, but nice. Both sexes wear good coats rather than waterproofs.
The whole experience of Marks and Spencer is pleasant, no music just the click and swish of coat hangers on rails; and muted conversations as people have relaxed discussions with good diction about possible purchases. There are accents but they are accents with rounded edges.
Yes, shopping at Marks and Spencer is a distinctly comfortable experience, there is non of the subliminal aggression you get in town centres, where groups of lurking youths bristle with latent menace making passing shoppers feel uneasy. Dissatisfaction with anything at Mark's is expressed with with a polite reprove or mild sarcasm. There is no pain in shopping at Marks - and here is perhaps one of the clues to its character - there is no apparent worry about spending, no anxious checking of price tags - shopping at ease for people at ease.
Wandering around the purchase targets V. had identified made my foot ache so, while V. tried on a couple of selections, I sat again. This time I perched on the edge of a display, it wasn't until I had been sat for a few seconds that I noticed the smiles and looks of fellow shoppers - I was sat beside three slender manikins wearing only lacy lingerie (size 10 - I checked). I must have made an amusing sight - an apparently benign middle aged man, obviously lame, sat beside these teasingly dressed dolls.
And perhaps that is the overriding feeling of the Marks and Spencer shopping experience, safe and benign: nothing bad can happen, women can be sexy but in settled relationships; men are not racy or dangerous, it's all so very nice.
I was left wondering though, whether this niceness doesn't extend into smugness; and I wondered too about what happens when people who are not 'Marks and Spencer' people wonder in with loud voiced mobile phone conversations and vulgar manners.
A British icon but, perhaps, not for everyone.
Banksy's latest masterpiece resonated with me today after visiting the Village Manor Bakery in Waterhead (just off the A62 near the 82 bus terminus, if you are passing). At only one mile from a Tesco, this traditional bakery bucks the trend fantastically by creating fabulous bread, cakes and pies without resorting to the dreaded Chorleywood Baking process that industrial bakers use to make that doughy stuff they sell in supermarkets as bread.
