There was a minor incident in Much Pothering yesterday. Nothing requiring the emergency services, thankfully, although judging by the tone of conversation in the village shop, you might have thought otherwise.
I’d popped into the post office to hand over a few parcels. A perfectly ordinary errand, made considerably more entertaining by the conversation taking place approximately six feet away. Which, given the size of the shop, is about as far away as anyone can get.
I should perhaps explain the village shop. It’s a wonderful little establishment, measuring all of ten feet wide by about thirty feet long. That’s the entire shop, including the post office, which is essentially a cupboard with a window cut into it.
It’s not remotely what you might call modern. There’s nothing fashionable about it, and I doubt anyone has ever used the words ‘retail experience’ within its walls. It’s gloriously rustic, a little bit cramped and has looked more or less the same for the last thirty years.
You can post a parcel, buy a pint of milk, pick up a newspaper and discover who’s had their hedge cut down without permission, all without moving more than three feet.
As for fresh produce, there are a few bananas, some apples, a couple of bags of spuds and a handful of carrots. I hesitate to call it a fruit and vegetable department, as that would suggest some sort of department exists.
It doesn’t.
What it does have, however, is Curly Wurlys, Flying Saucers and Flumps. Big packets of Flumps, too.
You can even buy a Dip Dab, which, as far as I’m concerned, is a pretty strong argument for keeping the place exactly as it is. I think the school kids getting off the bus at the end of the day and my Curly Wurly addiction keep the place going, if I’m honest.
There’s also a rather lovely arrangement if you happen to be a bit short of money. The nice people behind the counter simply write your name in a little book, along with how much you owe, and you pop back the next day to settle up.
No forms to complete, no credit checks, no complicated app to download and no password requiring seventeen characters, a capital letter and your inside leg measurement. Just a little book and a bit of trust.
Naturally, if you fail to return with the money, they come round to your house with a big bat. At least, I assume that’s what happens. I’ve always paid up before finding out.
Unfortunately, all this rural charm apparently wasn’t enough for a couple of relatively new residents who were discussing the shop’s shortcomings while I stood waiting to hand over my parcels.
There was no fresh ginger.
Not a single knobbly bit to be found.
This was clearly a cause for concern. There was some mention of how difficult it was to get proper ingredients locally, followed by a suggestion that the shop really ought to cater for what people want these days.
I nearly pointed out that what I wanted was for the post office queue to move along so I could go home and put the kettle on, but decided against it. Mrs Stamp, who runs the post office, caught my eye from behind her little window. Neither of us said a word, although I suspect we were thinking much the same thing.
Perhaps I’m terribly old-fashioned, but I’ve always considered the purpose of a village shop to be providing the essentials when you’ve run out of something. You know, like bog roll, milk or bread. Particularly when the entire premises are barely big enough to swing a moderately sized cat.
There are tins of beans, washing-up liquid, birthday cards and a good selection of sweets and packets of crisps. I would have thought that was quite enough. Nobody expects to find lemongrass, fresh turmeric or three varieties of artisan hummus tucked between the dog food and the envelopes. At least, I didn’t think they did.
Apparently, times are changing.
I suppose the shopkeeper could remove the birthday cards and install a special display for specialist ingredients such as yuzu juice, pomegranate molasses or rose harissa paste, although this would probably mean sacrificing the entire confectionery selection and possibly the post office cupboard.
Personally, I’d rather keep the Dip Dabs.
I eventually handed over my parcels, bought a Curly Wurly for the journey home and left before anyone discovered the absence of fresh coriander.
That really could have finished the village off.
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