Robots.
Standing in line at a supermarket checkout the other day brought home to me the fact that not all progress is beneficial, on my way there I composed a mental shopping list. I parked (eventually) entered the store, grabbed a trolley, then with lightning speed negotiated the isles, and filled up with groceries and all in less than five minutes. Then I stood in line for a little over ten minutes. Que. hopping brought this up to twelve minutes (sorry Kaz I cant help it) and in all that time the only conversation I had with another human being was a short exchange between the check out girl and I as to whether or not I needed help packing. What she asked wasn’t even unique to me, she asked everyone the same question, and we all gave the same answer, then struggled to get items into the bags as quickly as she was banging them through the till.
Its odd that in the fifties and sixties we collectively looked forward to a world free of toil where everything would be done by robots, what we didn’t realise was that it would be us that would be the robots. I understand and appreciate that supermarkets are a central point where we can do all our shopping and for the most part get everything we need. But I sometimes miss the personal touch of the corner shop. Granted their prices are a little higher, and they don’t always stock some of the things you might want, but it was a place you could take your time, catch up on local gossip and dodge beer cans thrown by the local hoodies. Mine bit the dust several months ago unable to compete with the big boys, and I now have to travel to Eastern Europe to get my Sunday paper.
When I was a kid shops seemed to be on the corner of every street, they were the days of demarcation, and the unwritten rule was that no shop crossed over into the sales territory of another shop. The street where I lived boasted two shops, Metcalves which was a general grocery shop was light and airy with posters on the wall inviting you to buy Heinz beans and Pepsodent toothpaste, the counter had pyramid stacks of cans and a huge meat slicing machine. In the corner near the door stood the five teared display of chocolate bars. I was frequently sent on errands to this shop, and I can remember that on Thursdays I would be sent for a quarter of boiled ham for my father’s tea. I would always return with just a little less than three ounces having poked my finger through the wrapping and pinched some. My Mother had many arguments with the shopkeeper about short-changing, and I don’t think she knows to this day that I was responsible.
Across the street on the other corner stood Barbers shop, this was a much darker place, it sold beer and cigarettes, hadn’t been painted since the war and had very little lighting inside apart from two gas mantles. There was a long dark brown counter on which stood three beer pumps of the kind that used to be found in pubs. I can remember buying woodbine cigarettes for my Grandfather from this shop. On Friday nights he would send me to Barbers with a cloth covered jug to buy two pints of mild. They would be pulled from the pumps on the counter by a frail old woman who on hearing the shop doorbell clang as you entered would drag herself from the dark interior of the room at the back of the shop.
There was a tall thin chap who never spoke, he had a sallow complexion and yellow hair, and he always had a half burned fag in his mouth with the ash still attached, he seemed to spend his life sweeping the bare wooden floor of the shop. What little they had in the way of window display was pre war, yellowed by the sun and covered in dust.
Two streets away was Auntie Mary’s shop. This was where you shopped when your tic had run out at the other shops, and where us kids went on hot summer days for an Aunt Mary’s home made Vimto lolly. If you were particulaly flush on birthdays you could splash out and buy a Mivi or a Pendleton’s twicer. The one thing common to all of these shops was the penny tray, this device was purpose engineered for kids, and was always kept mysteriously under the counter. It consisted of a shallow metal or wooden tray with different types of sweets laid out in rows. There were sherbet flying saucers, black jacks, penny chews, small chocolate bars, toffee cigarettes, and Liquorice of every shape and size, what ever was on the tray cost just a penny. Ah yes, you knew where you were with the penny tray, no ambiguity there.
There was one other shop that left an impression on me, it stood opposite the park across from the old church and it was more dark and dismal than even Barbers shop. It didn’t have a name as far as I know, there was no sign over the door, no name to say who owned it, but it was known locally as the wood shop. Here you could buy iron mongery. Its shelves were stocked with nails and screws in little brown cardboard boxes, hangers and brackets of every kind. There were storm lamps hanging from the ceiling and a pot bellied stove in the corner that as far as I know never did get sold and was still there when the houses in that part of Gorton was pulled down. But people mainly went there to buy firelighters, and paraffin that stank the shop out, it was kept in a huge blue fifty gallon drum that had a hand pump on top and a big funnel tied to the side with string. I used to go there sometimes on a Saturday morning and chop big sticks of wood into little sticks of wood, which would then be arranged into round bundles secured with wire and sold for threpence a bundle. These bundles of wood were used for starting the fire, along with a shovel and a newspaper to create a backdraft. For this task I was paid a shilling and I earned every penny of it. I don’t think that a Saturday went bye without me coming home with hands full of splinters and smelling of paraffin. My Mother tried to put a stop to me going there but I protested so much she always gave in, until one day I came home with a deep gash on my hand caused by the hatchet I used to cut the wood. I missed my weekly shilling, but found another way to earn money not long after.
You only had to walk a few streets in any direction to find other shops. The German butchers with all kinds of sausage hanging in the window, the fishmongers where during the summer fish would be prepared outside on a marble slab. Webs newspaper shop where I used to take the radio battery for recharging, and a strange place consisting of two shops but with only one door. Turn left and you could buy mops and dolly blue’s for your weekly washing, turn right and on offer was second hand clothes washed and ready to wear.
There was a rich diversity in the retail business, a character and way of life that disappeared with the advent of the supermarket, these days they all look the same, care of the corporate image. When you walk into one of these shops you are just another face, just another robot spending money.
Its odd that in the fifties and sixties we collectively looked forward to a world free of toil where everything would be done by robots, what we didn’t realise was that it would be us that would be the robots. I understand and appreciate that supermarkets are a central point where we can do all our shopping and for the most part get everything we need. But I sometimes miss the personal touch of the corner shop. Granted their prices are a little higher, and they don’t always stock some of the things you might want, but it was a place you could take your time, catch up on local gossip and dodge beer cans thrown by the local hoodies. Mine bit the dust several months ago unable to compete with the big boys, and I now have to travel to Eastern Europe to get my Sunday paper.
When I was a kid shops seemed to be on the corner of every street, they were the days of demarcation, and the unwritten rule was that no shop crossed over into the sales territory of another shop. The street where I lived boasted two shops, Metcalves which was a general grocery shop was light and airy with posters on the wall inviting you to buy Heinz beans and Pepsodent toothpaste, the counter had pyramid stacks of cans and a huge meat slicing machine. In the corner near the door stood the five teared display of chocolate bars. I was frequently sent on errands to this shop, and I can remember that on Thursdays I would be sent for a quarter of boiled ham for my father’s tea. I would always return with just a little less than three ounces having poked my finger through the wrapping and pinched some. My Mother had many arguments with the shopkeeper about short-changing, and I don’t think she knows to this day that I was responsible.
Across the street on the other corner stood Barbers shop, this was a much darker place, it sold beer and cigarettes, hadn’t been painted since the war and had very little lighting inside apart from two gas mantles. There was a long dark brown counter on which stood three beer pumps of the kind that used to be found in pubs. I can remember buying woodbine cigarettes for my Grandfather from this shop. On Friday nights he would send me to Barbers with a cloth covered jug to buy two pints of mild. They would be pulled from the pumps on the counter by a frail old woman who on hearing the shop doorbell clang as you entered would drag herself from the dark interior of the room at the back of the shop.
There was a tall thin chap who never spoke, he had a sallow complexion and yellow hair, and he always had a half burned fag in his mouth with the ash still attached, he seemed to spend his life sweeping the bare wooden floor of the shop. What little they had in the way of window display was pre war, yellowed by the sun and covered in dust.
Two streets away was Auntie Mary’s shop. This was where you shopped when your tic had run out at the other shops, and where us kids went on hot summer days for an Aunt Mary’s home made Vimto lolly. If you were particulaly flush on birthdays you could splash out and buy a Mivi or a Pendleton’s twicer. The one thing common to all of these shops was the penny tray, this device was purpose engineered for kids, and was always kept mysteriously under the counter. It consisted of a shallow metal or wooden tray with different types of sweets laid out in rows. There were sherbet flying saucers, black jacks, penny chews, small chocolate bars, toffee cigarettes, and Liquorice of every shape and size, what ever was on the tray cost just a penny. Ah yes, you knew where you were with the penny tray, no ambiguity there.
There was one other shop that left an impression on me, it stood opposite the park across from the old church and it was more dark and dismal than even Barbers shop. It didn’t have a name as far as I know, there was no sign over the door, no name to say who owned it, but it was known locally as the wood shop. Here you could buy iron mongery. Its shelves were stocked with nails and screws in little brown cardboard boxes, hangers and brackets of every kind. There were storm lamps hanging from the ceiling and a pot bellied stove in the corner that as far as I know never did get sold and was still there when the houses in that part of Gorton was pulled down. But people mainly went there to buy firelighters, and paraffin that stank the shop out, it was kept in a huge blue fifty gallon drum that had a hand pump on top and a big funnel tied to the side with string. I used to go there sometimes on a Saturday morning and chop big sticks of wood into little sticks of wood, which would then be arranged into round bundles secured with wire and sold for threpence a bundle. These bundles of wood were used for starting the fire, along with a shovel and a newspaper to create a backdraft. For this task I was paid a shilling and I earned every penny of it. I don’t think that a Saturday went bye without me coming home with hands full of splinters and smelling of paraffin. My Mother tried to put a stop to me going there but I protested so much she always gave in, until one day I came home with a deep gash on my hand caused by the hatchet I used to cut the wood. I missed my weekly shilling, but found another way to earn money not long after.
You only had to walk a few streets in any direction to find other shops. The German butchers with all kinds of sausage hanging in the window, the fishmongers where during the summer fish would be prepared outside on a marble slab. Webs newspaper shop where I used to take the radio battery for recharging, and a strange place consisting of two shops but with only one door. Turn left and you could buy mops and dolly blue’s for your weekly washing, turn right and on offer was second hand clothes washed and ready to wear.
There was a rich diversity in the retail business, a character and way of life that disappeared with the advent of the supermarket, these days they all look the same, care of the corporate image. When you walk into one of these shops you are just another face, just another robot spending money.
posted by Dave G at 11:49 am
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