Countdown to Christmas and The High Street
From mid-November onwards, a curious phenomenon occurs in
certain towns. The outdoor market,
which is sometimes branded as a German Market, but actually resembles a shed
show with a very limited choice of styles available.
Before the criticism of town centres was that all the shops
seemed to be closing, the criticism of town centres was that all the shops were
opening and that each High Street, which in the fantasy Daily Mail readers like
to construct for themselves consisted of independent shops staffed by cheery
and attentive white folk, was becoming homogenised. Where you used to be able to wander from greengrocer to
butcher to farrier to witchfinder, you now drove to an out of town mothership
of a superstore and got all your food and horseshoes there, meaning that the
High Street became the home to Our Price, Woolworths and C&A.
This led to every High Street looking the same.
Luckily, at Christmas, with the arrival of the seasonal
market, the High Street has the opportunity to once again attain some individuality. Of course this does not actually happen
because while there may be a way to make a High Street look unique, setting up
100 identical sheds selling sausage, cheese or very ugly wooden toys ain’t it.
Christmas Eve on the High Street can still be a special
time. From the bloke who stayed
too long in the boozer banging on the door of a shutting and shuttering Perfume
Shop to the pleased parent with a list consisting of ticked items, who is
fourteen short hours away from discovering the difference between AA and AAA
batteries.
Some think the High Street has had its day. In turn, the out of town retail park is
being buggered by broadband as people do their shopping from their sofa. The centre of commerce has moved from
the high street to the out of town superstore and now to the way out of town
megawarehouse, the apogee of free market capitalism where thanks to zero hours
contracts the warehouse workers don’t earn on toilet breaks, essentially paying
to pee. Thanks Thatcher.
Now I’m not so sure.
Maybe there is a place for the High Street. The town centre, for instance.
Christmas Eve and we needed last minute gadget
shopping. It looked as though the
only person capable of delivering it quickly enough was a fat bloke in a red
suit. Plan A was writing a letter
and posting it up the chimney.
Plan B was Argos.
A quick internet search showed that Argos stocked the gadget
in question. In store. In their store. In the town centre. On the High Street. We ordered on line and promptly
followed the stream of electrons to the High Street where the lights of the
store shone brightly.
Argos on Christmas Eve is an interesting place. It’s surprisingly quiet and relaxed,
possibly because the sort of people who shop at Argos are the sort of people
who have their shit together and who ordered that Wendy house weeks ago,
collected it days ago and are currently in their garage assembling the
fucker. The most stressed person
in the shop was me, having raced there on my push bike and keen to collect my
clicked gadget.
Is there anything Argos doesn’t stock? That catalogue is really, really
thick. I just used to look at
Castle Greyskull and walkmans (walkmen?).
Who knows what the hell else is in there? Mail order brides?
Cockatoos? Small arms?
I paid, collected and was off in about ten minutes.
The only other collection I noted, waiting there on the
shelves for some generous and thoughtful gift-giver, were two 8kg kettle
bells. Good luck getting those
home.
There is a place for the High Street then. It’s in the centre of town. It’s not in a retail park, or in a vast
warehouse, or online. It’s a place
where you can go and you can shop and you can get what you need and people are
friendly and where you walk away from the shop with your stuff and a smile.
The High Street was there when I needed it. Maybe in future I should be there when
it needs me.
Labels: Christmas