Random Thoughts on Everything

memories are made of this ...

When I read that W H Smith are closing their high street stores I felt a sense of nostalgia for tepid orange squash, of the kind I drank from a Tupperware cup as a child.

I remember peeling back the lid and releasing the scent of Robinsons and plastic as I read Enid Blyton’s First Term at Mallory Towers, and despite having lasted only 5 of 14 nights at Felixstowe summer school, I dreamt of the thrilling midnight feasts I would enjoy at an all girls boarding school. Me, a child scared of her own shadow … balloons, caps fired from toy guns, and my mother not being the first parent to arrive at the school gate … and yet I was totally under the influence of Blyton’s words. I knew nothing of her racist leanings, I just recognised her magical writing talent in books often purchased for me at the local W H Smith.

A journalist in the Telegraph newspaper wrote off W H Smith as ‘outdated,’ and ‘a Caramac bar in a world of Tony’s Chocolonely.’ Firstly I loved the old Caramac bar and secondly Choco what? And if there’s no such thing as bad publicity, then surely the board at Smiths were delighted with the X account (now deleted) showing customer images of their dilapidated carpets?

Ours is a world of mass consumption where we chase the latest trend. Few mourned the tired Woolworths pick’n mix that has gone forever. Fewer still remember the supermarket chain named Fine Fare (closed 1988), or the high street retailer, Timothy Whites, purveyors of housewares (closed or rebranded as Boots, 1985). For the well endowed girl or woman in north-west London, there used to be two lingerie shops employing the rudest of shop assistants. In Leibergs they would tut as if doing you the biggest favour whilst hoisting your breasts into a couple of skin-toned hammocks. ‘You don’t like it darling? But it fits perfect. What’s not to like?’ Or, ‘Lacey fabric?’ Cue eye-roll. ‘You want Lacey to support those? Trust me darling, tomorrow morning when you put this bra on you’ll be thanking me.’ And shouting to the machinist huddled over a noisy Singer in the back room,’ she’ll be thanking me, won’t she, Marcy?’

In Franks (closed in 2008) they shoved me into a bikini so solid it creaked, and whilst I argued with my mother that it was neither pretty nor flattering, the sales woman shoved her hands under the heavy wiring, lifted the contents like she was kneading dough and told her colleague ‘look at this, it’s gorgeous on her, tell me it’s not … go on, tell me…’ And as she pulled pins from her whiskered lips making the back tighter, all the other saleswomen stopped their bickering over who’s turn it was to make tea, and swivelled like a multi headed monster smelling a sale. ‘Kids today, think they know everything.’ They told my mother, seeking an ally. ‘Go, look elsewhere. But … we can’t promise that size will still be here when you come back.’

Us Baby Boomers share many memories that mean nothing to younger generations. The Millenials and Gen Zs who mostly live online and are unlikely to have entered a hooded booth in their local record shop and listened with excitement to the latest music album heading up the charts. They won’t miss W.H Smith born in 1821 nor any other of the behemoths yet to die. We Brits are no longer a nation of shopkeepers, we’ve fallen out of love with face to face social interaction, and with bricks and mortar. Jeff Bezos has become our god of shopping, and the line for post office parcel returns grows daily.

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