The noise is loud the laughter is curing my hangover, good, the shop is slowly filling with lovely lovely ladies in hand knit jumpers, silver jewelry and Brizzol accents. Lovely lovely ladies drinking coffee and tea , perched on crates and stools cramming a corner with Brisol laughter and the shop full of love. Im loving it at last , paper shufflers can wait , the landlady is twitching with envy , eager to get back to her husband to report on the hippies in the shop, probably she thinks a gang of knitters here to spread the loose knit, hand knit way of life onto the uptight acrylic village jumpers she holds so dear. She clutches her pearls close to her throat and pulls her poly/wool M&S twin set (bought in the sale in 1995) to her breast and slides out beaten by the laughter of these lovely lovely ladies , Guardian readers the lot of them I can hear her mutter, comforted by the copy of the Daily Mail shes tucked in her knickers for safety.
Im loving it, actually this is the reason why I do this, the lovely lovely hand knit ladies raised my pulse yesterday over coffee, cake and chocolate stars and today they're doing it again. In between pots of tea and milkshakes the villagers look on with suspicion , half an eye on their change the other half on the glinting silver jewelry sipping tea in the corner.
My mind wanders again and Im in a French movie , Manon de source or even Chocolat, a small village the outsiders and the enraged locals. Colour !!! Thank goodness for colour, no drab grey parkas, navy fleeces, not a pair of stained polyester sweatpants on Brisol ladies. Reds, purple velvet bags,white hair, heather melange jumpers, white poppy's , no beige, no hand knitted Reebok here.
I've been running around, purple broccoli by the bag full, eggs by the dozen, bread by the bike load and endless pots of tea and coffee. The cakes sell well , its bloody amazing , people love my shop, a lovely lovely lady not from Brisol tells me its the best shop she's ever been in, thank you I say and inside I'm bursting , holding on with all my upbringing to stop myself from screaming out the door at my neighbours as they walk by loaded down with shit from Asda I want to scream at them "DO YOU KNOW THIS IS THE BEST SHOP THIS LOVELY LOVELY LADY NOT FROM BRIZZOL HAS EVER BEEN IN AND YOU ARSEHOLES DON"T USE IT, FUCK YOU"
I wonder if I m cut out for this pillar of the community malarky , I think I'm better at the pissed up in the corner , best be avoided sort of member of the community. He's ok a little bit odd , might bite but funny up to a point, best avoid or he might be honest.
The lovely lovely hand knit ladies have gone, we hugged and I'm encouraged to keep going. One day I'll have the landlords wife in a loose knit wooly with a trail of silver snails around her neck, never again to leave her trail of despair in my shop gain.
Thanks lovely lovely ladies from Brizzol, come back soon and bring me a pair of happy socks
xxxxx
Saturday 30 October 2010
Thursday 28 October 2010
Ronnie Barker was a genius
Its 11am and the last of the regulars has scuttled in collected their newspaper passed a smart arse remark and buggered off without buying a single thing other than their daily rag.
Fo six months I have stood behind my counter trying to best serve the residents of this small English village , smiling and pretending to care about their cancers, dead relatives, lost cats, day trips to the supermarkets. I've heard all about the niggers, the blacks, the eastern Europeans, the poofs, queers and fags that have invaded this great land of theirs. I've smelt their piss, bad breath, breakfast , shit in their kids nappies and all the while I've smiled.
As I stand and take the cash they begrudge handing over I've been told I don't know what Im doing , its their shop, how dare i change things, I've been called a fucking cunt, idiot, thief and a liar. All because I get out of bed at 5.30am , untie the daily newspapers , lay them out in neat tidy rows , title by title, Tv mags on a Tuesday, Peoples friend on a Wednesday, Racing Pigeon on a Thursday, Farmers weekly on a Friday and the fat, heavy weekend papers that never get read.
If I forget to stuff the TV guide in the Express back they come to tell me how the last owner never got it wrong. If the Weekend section doesn't arrive they want to know why they should pay full price for their £1.90 Telegraph on a Saturday , because thats the fucking price thats why.
Have I got nutmeg? wheres the fire lighters?, how much ?, not a please not a thank you only a deep groan and a sigh when I don't have nutmeg the same nutmeg they forgot to get at ASDA when the bought all the other things we sell here at the village shop.
Slowly over the last six months I have painted the store, put in new shelves, bought new stock, fresh veg, pies and cakes made daily , tasty hams and cold cuts . Ground coffee,a pretty little tea room with an amazing selection of teas,cakes and sandwiches. Serving hot food that rivals the more established eating houses in the village. Bread baked daily, toast buttered with Somerset Farmhouse butter dripping with local honey so sweet and fragrant it could make you soul weep.
Idiots come in unable to grunt more than two words together i refuse to answer until they pronounce the words in a way in which I can understand them. I don't care that you can't speak but I give a shit when you can't even grunt please and thank you.
I have a groups of regulars, the morning paper shuffle lining up outside no matter what time I open waiting like old pissed stained drunks for the pub doors to open. By 8.30 most have been and gone clearing the way for the mums to arrive on their way to drop the kids off at school. One of the old boys hangs back in his grubby polyester track pants and stained acrylic polar fleece. The red veins in his nose sweating as he trys to imagine what it would be like to be with a women again.
I break off to serve one of my favorites a bottle of white wine to help her ease the pain of the memory of when she was raped as a small girl evacuated away from London during the war to the safety of Norfolk and the torment thats to last a lifetime
My mums are few but they are happy and full of motherly love for their children, their bodies have gone and their faces now show the years of keeping house. But today its tennis , coffee morning, yoga , keep fit , pottery. The book club is on a break so they fill the hour by drinking tea and gossiping in my tea room. Always polite and always grateful for my service. Quick to tell me that they are happy I am here. Off they go promising next time to buy more and always very sorry not have have spent more than they have.
The day goes by and I wander off , the landlords wife slides in , nose twitching like a rats , arms folded in disapproval of the changes, 15 years since she was the shopkeepers wife so why does she still think this is her shop. Her husband now collects the rent and in return sits back and watches his building crumble , all the while he skulks past the front door avoiding his responsibilities . I thank her for her custom as she counts out the 50p for her Daily Mail, waiting until another customer enters the shop before she announces for the 3rd day in a row that the milk she bought from me yesterday soured within 10 minutes of opening, today is the day I tell her she should stop looking at the milk. What else can I say?
Quiet and my mind starts to think about flying to America, China HK , Italy or France. I think of the parties and dinners I could be going to in places I've been to many times. Right now i could be sipping cocktails and eating fresh pizza dripping with mozzarella cheese in a bar in Kowloon high up in the sky overlooking Hong Kong Island. the music thumps the lights are dim, Im on fire and my customers love me, laughing at my jokes, seeking my advice, happy to flirt back to me as I make them feel special.
Slam "Gootanybacca"I wake up and another prick in a track suit wants a pack of cheap smokes.
Sorry I only carry a few brands I reply in such away that tells the guy to fuck off
"Whatyougot?GotanyMayfair?"
Of course I've got Mayfair you cheap bastard , nobody smokes Marlboro, Winston. Piccadily, Dunhill , Rothmans or Players anymore, its not about the taste its about the price. Cheap cheap cheap just like the twats that smoke them.
Fo six months I have stood behind my counter trying to best serve the residents of this small English village , smiling and pretending to care about their cancers, dead relatives, lost cats, day trips to the supermarkets. I've heard all about the niggers, the blacks, the eastern Europeans, the poofs, queers and fags that have invaded this great land of theirs. I've smelt their piss, bad breath, breakfast , shit in their kids nappies and all the while I've smiled.
As I stand and take the cash they begrudge handing over I've been told I don't know what Im doing , its their shop, how dare i change things, I've been called a fucking cunt, idiot, thief and a liar. All because I get out of bed at 5.30am , untie the daily newspapers , lay them out in neat tidy rows , title by title, Tv mags on a Tuesday, Peoples friend on a Wednesday, Racing Pigeon on a Thursday, Farmers weekly on a Friday and the fat, heavy weekend papers that never get read.
If I forget to stuff the TV guide in the Express back they come to tell me how the last owner never got it wrong. If the Weekend section doesn't arrive they want to know why they should pay full price for their £1.90 Telegraph on a Saturday , because thats the fucking price thats why.
Have I got nutmeg? wheres the fire lighters?, how much ?, not a please not a thank you only a deep groan and a sigh when I don't have nutmeg the same nutmeg they forgot to get at ASDA when the bought all the other things we sell here at the village shop.
Slowly over the last six months I have painted the store, put in new shelves, bought new stock, fresh veg, pies and cakes made daily , tasty hams and cold cuts . Ground coffee,a pretty little tea room with an amazing selection of teas,cakes and sandwiches. Serving hot food that rivals the more established eating houses in the village. Bread baked daily, toast buttered with Somerset Farmhouse butter dripping with local honey so sweet and fragrant it could make you soul weep.
Idiots come in unable to grunt more than two words together i refuse to answer until they pronounce the words in a way in which I can understand them. I don't care that you can't speak but I give a shit when you can't even grunt please and thank you.
I have a groups of regulars, the morning paper shuffle lining up outside no matter what time I open waiting like old pissed stained drunks for the pub doors to open. By 8.30 most have been and gone clearing the way for the mums to arrive on their way to drop the kids off at school. One of the old boys hangs back in his grubby polyester track pants and stained acrylic polar fleece. The red veins in his nose sweating as he trys to imagine what it would be like to be with a women again.
I break off to serve one of my favorites a bottle of white wine to help her ease the pain of the memory of when she was raped as a small girl evacuated away from London during the war to the safety of Norfolk and the torment thats to last a lifetime
My mums are few but they are happy and full of motherly love for their children, their bodies have gone and their faces now show the years of keeping house. But today its tennis , coffee morning, yoga , keep fit , pottery. The book club is on a break so they fill the hour by drinking tea and gossiping in my tea room. Always polite and always grateful for my service. Quick to tell me that they are happy I am here. Off they go promising next time to buy more and always very sorry not have have spent more than they have.
The day goes by and I wander off , the landlords wife slides in , nose twitching like a rats , arms folded in disapproval of the changes, 15 years since she was the shopkeepers wife so why does she still think this is her shop. Her husband now collects the rent and in return sits back and watches his building crumble , all the while he skulks past the front door avoiding his responsibilities . I thank her for her custom as she counts out the 50p for her Daily Mail, waiting until another customer enters the shop before she announces for the 3rd day in a row that the milk she bought from me yesterday soured within 10 minutes of opening, today is the day I tell her she should stop looking at the milk. What else can I say?
Quiet and my mind starts to think about flying to America, China HK , Italy or France. I think of the parties and dinners I could be going to in places I've been to many times. Right now i could be sipping cocktails and eating fresh pizza dripping with mozzarella cheese in a bar in Kowloon high up in the sky overlooking Hong Kong Island. the music thumps the lights are dim, Im on fire and my customers love me, laughing at my jokes, seeking my advice, happy to flirt back to me as I make them feel special.
Slam "Gootanybacca"I wake up and another prick in a track suit wants a pack of cheap smokes.
Sorry I only carry a few brands I reply in such away that tells the guy to fuck off
"Whatyougot?GotanyMayfair?"
Of course I've got Mayfair you cheap bastard , nobody smokes Marlboro, Winston. Piccadily, Dunhill , Rothmans or Players anymore, its not about the taste its about the price. Cheap cheap cheap just like the twats that smoke them.
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