Post by Chips on Mar 17, 2004 13:01:10 GMT 9.5
THE CORNER SHOP
I remember my first corner shop very well. Clutching the few precious pennies begged from an Aunt or Uncle and tightly holding them in my small hand, I would run the length of the cobble-stoned street to begin the adventure of spending my small fortune.
Barely tall enough to reach the door handle, I would stand on tip-toe pushing hard with my small body against the strong spring of the door. Success of entry was assured when I heard the spring loaded bell jangle as the door allowed me entry to a veritable Aladdin's cave of riches.
The shelving contained tiers of jars which displayed a wonderful assortment of colourful confectionery and on the front counter, a multitude of small toys and pre-packaged sweets. Behind the counter stood an ancient old man who wore a white grocers jacket and a trilby hat, in his mouth a pipe, from which he puffed voluminous clouds of sweet smelling smoke.
My few pennies purchased illicit stock of sweets, for those were the war years and coupons should have changed hands. My lollies were dropped from a highly polished brass scoop into a triangle shaped bag which was twisted at the top. The journey back home invariably took a long time as I consumed the contents of the bag, my cheeks bulging from an over-full mouth.
As I grew, more and more corner shops came into my life, one of which was the local newsagent. Myriads of papers were spread over the counter and the smell of fresh newsprint was overpowering. It was my job to go to the newsagent every week for two reasons, one was to pay the paper bill, the other to purchase and take home 'three of each'. Both of my grandparents had a habit for snuff and the 'three of each' was to make up their weekly mixture of regular and menthol snuff. I must confess that during those early years I became an accomplished snuff taker and even today I am not adverse to the odd sniff. The newsagent who was a friendly soul gave me the nickname of Silas and it was a name he was to use for the many long years that I knew him.
The butcher was a few doors away from the newsagent. The shop had scrubbed wooden floor which was liberally coated with sawdust to soak up blood and fat from the carcasses that hung on the rail from the shop's ceiling. There was a blackboard on the wall which the local inhabitants watched closely for the initial of their surname to appear. The initial would indicate it was their turn to share in none-rationed meat products such as liver, kidney and other offal. Meat was still rationed and those additional meats were valuable in supplementing the family larder.
There were many more corner shops in my childhood, one of which was run by the local barber. He was a huge man that continually drank from a jug of ale which he replenished from the nearby off-licence many times a day. His drinking and the way he cut my hair didn't bother me, but I would cringe in fear when he lit a spill to singe my freshly cut hair.
In those days shoes that were wearing out were taken to the cobbler. A small shop of fascinating belt driven machinery and cobbler's lasts complete with the wonderful smell of leather. Alas, our modern throw-away society has almost seen the last of these craftsmen who were able to make our old shoes as good as new.
Even the ironmonger has disappeared, giving way to home improvement centres and chain hardware stores. No longer can you go and buy a pound of nails and carry them home wrapped in old newspaper. Today they are supplied pre-packed in ridiculously small amounts, with the packaging probably costing more than the product they contain.
What amazed me most was the fact that all the shop owners knew my name and they always asked after my Grandmother's health. Customers used to stand in or outside the corner shop and exchange all the local gossip. While the shopkeepers seemed to be interested in the local goings-on, I never knew one of them to repeat gossip or make comment unless it was to offer encouragement or sympathy. In my later years, I realized that the shopkeeper was something of a confessor figure, always listening to their customers problems with a sympathetic ear and never passing the information to others.
Forty years on I owned my own corner shop and I just know that some of the children that were my customers, in years to come will remember me as the ancient old man. Well, the pleasure will be all mine and sincerely hope that I will be remembered with as much affection as I remembered my first shopkeeper.
I remember my first corner shop very well. Clutching the few precious pennies begged from an Aunt or Uncle and tightly holding them in my small hand, I would run the length of the cobble-stoned street to begin the adventure of spending my small fortune.
Barely tall enough to reach the door handle, I would stand on tip-toe pushing hard with my small body against the strong spring of the door. Success of entry was assured when I heard the spring loaded bell jangle as the door allowed me entry to a veritable Aladdin's cave of riches.
The shelving contained tiers of jars which displayed a wonderful assortment of colourful confectionery and on the front counter, a multitude of small toys and pre-packaged sweets. Behind the counter stood an ancient old man who wore a white grocers jacket and a trilby hat, in his mouth a pipe, from which he puffed voluminous clouds of sweet smelling smoke.
My few pennies purchased illicit stock of sweets, for those were the war years and coupons should have changed hands. My lollies were dropped from a highly polished brass scoop into a triangle shaped bag which was twisted at the top. The journey back home invariably took a long time as I consumed the contents of the bag, my cheeks bulging from an over-full mouth.
As I grew, more and more corner shops came into my life, one of which was the local newsagent. Myriads of papers were spread over the counter and the smell of fresh newsprint was overpowering. It was my job to go to the newsagent every week for two reasons, one was to pay the paper bill, the other to purchase and take home 'three of each'. Both of my grandparents had a habit for snuff and the 'three of each' was to make up their weekly mixture of regular and menthol snuff. I must confess that during those early years I became an accomplished snuff taker and even today I am not adverse to the odd sniff. The newsagent who was a friendly soul gave me the nickname of Silas and it was a name he was to use for the many long years that I knew him.
The butcher was a few doors away from the newsagent. The shop had scrubbed wooden floor which was liberally coated with sawdust to soak up blood and fat from the carcasses that hung on the rail from the shop's ceiling. There was a blackboard on the wall which the local inhabitants watched closely for the initial of their surname to appear. The initial would indicate it was their turn to share in none-rationed meat products such as liver, kidney and other offal. Meat was still rationed and those additional meats were valuable in supplementing the family larder.
There were many more corner shops in my childhood, one of which was run by the local barber. He was a huge man that continually drank from a jug of ale which he replenished from the nearby off-licence many times a day. His drinking and the way he cut my hair didn't bother me, but I would cringe in fear when he lit a spill to singe my freshly cut hair.
In those days shoes that were wearing out were taken to the cobbler. A small shop of fascinating belt driven machinery and cobbler's lasts complete with the wonderful smell of leather. Alas, our modern throw-away society has almost seen the last of these craftsmen who were able to make our old shoes as good as new.
Even the ironmonger has disappeared, giving way to home improvement centres and chain hardware stores. No longer can you go and buy a pound of nails and carry them home wrapped in old newspaper. Today they are supplied pre-packed in ridiculously small amounts, with the packaging probably costing more than the product they contain.
What amazed me most was the fact that all the shop owners knew my name and they always asked after my Grandmother's health. Customers used to stand in or outside the corner shop and exchange all the local gossip. While the shopkeepers seemed to be interested in the local goings-on, I never knew one of them to repeat gossip or make comment unless it was to offer encouragement or sympathy. In my later years, I realized that the shopkeeper was something of a confessor figure, always listening to their customers problems with a sympathetic ear and never passing the information to others.
Forty years on I owned my own corner shop and I just know that some of the children that were my customers, in years to come will remember me as the ancient old man. Well, the pleasure will be all mine and sincerely hope that I will be remembered with as much affection as I remembered my first shopkeeper.