Not just a shop

 When I first moved here nearly thirty years ago everyone talked about a shop in the High Street.

“Oh, you’ll get that in the Emporium.”

“The Emporium. Yes, the Emporium has everything.”

“It’s not just a shop. It’s the Emporium.”

I’ll confess. I didn’t get it. I didn’t think it was a very special shop. Yes, it had a bit of everything but I couldn’t see the appeal. In those days, we still had a Woolworths, so if you wanted fabric dye to make a retro Seventies T-shirt or something to unblock the sink or a bag of pick and mix you were set. As I’ve got older, and crazier this shop has grown on me.

When I was bonkers, after mum died, all I could do was walk. Dealing with people was tricky but going into that shop was a daily grounding experience. I used to walk for hours and end up in the High Street. I liked to be near but not having to interact with people. It was good for me to see that real life continued even though I couldn’t engage with it. 

Any shop called the Emporium has to have magic in it somewhere.  This shop’s magic is the kindness of the staff. 

When I was walking with the dog (in my bonkers days) this shop was impossible to pass. It is my dog’s favourite shop. They have dog biscuits behind the counter and the staff know him by name, have a chat, while feeding him biscuits.

“We’ve got some gravy bones today. You like those, don’t you? What about one of these yellow ones? Ooop, that didn’t last long. You are a hungry boy!”

It felt like a conversation: one that I didn’t have to participate in. I bought bird seed or things to make my garden better or unblock my sinks. I bought a peg bag. “Over fifty years on the planet and this is the first peg bag I’ve bought!” I laughed at myself. At that time, focusing on small things made all the difference. This shop was full of small things.

I liked how much the staff cared about their elderly customers. Every time I went in, I would catch someone patiently explaining how they would drop their bag of compost over after 5, when they finished work and to, “make sure they had the kettle on.” When elderly men, clearly with dementia, got angry about their delivery not having arrived, no effort was spared to explain that he had only been in that morning and had arranged delivery for the next day. They even helped him find the piece of paper they’d written it on by remembering what pocket he’d put it in. They helped the man in the brown egg-stained cardi to count 7 gobstoppers into a paper bag - one for each day of the week and advised the lady in the pinny of the best mousetrap to buy to deal with the (mouthed silently) ‘little problem’.

It had only taken the death of two parents, a couple of friends, PTSD and being a certain age for me to fully appreciate this shop. Then it was put up for sale. The owners want to retire. I didn’t blame them but I was sad.

When a global pandemic hit and all but essential shops closed I thought that would be the end of this spot of magic on our High Street. I thought the owners would take the opportunity to start their retirement, furlough their staff, kick back and relax. 

That’s not what happens in stories about magic, though. Emporiums thrive. They, and everyone else, realised that they are an essential. Everyone needed to feed the birds. The whole world was tie-dying t-shirts. We had time to make our gardens perfect or peg our clothes on the line. Sinks blocked up because everyone was at home. When everyone was eating breakfast together you needed an extra egg cup or two. This little shop allowed a green grocer to open in the garden centre. This business had lost most of its restaurant delivery trade and was probably saved by this gesture.

Obviously, the shop wasn’t busy. Most people were too scared and believed it was safer to get Amazon to allow their overworked delivery drivers (who probably haven’t washed their hands since 2002), to leave parcels on the doorstep. However, for me, the dog and most old confused people it remained a place of relative normality. The staff didn’t stop being kind and you got a free forehead thermometer with your purchase.

Yesterday, buoyed by my swim, I decided that I could go into some shops. 

“I’m just being a snowflake,” I said to myself. “Of course I can wear a mask.”

I was at the till, with my packets of birdseed and some biscuits for the dog (I didn’t think he should miss out just because I was on my own) and the world started to look a little strange. It was like looking through a fish-eye lens. I felt very hot and was beginning to think I had to run.

The girl behind the till looked at me and said, “Take it off!” She gestured opening a flap on her mouth.

I was, briefly, confused and then realised what she was saying. 

“You don’t have to worry. You’re safe here,” she said.

I hope, even though it has only taken a global pandemic, everyone realises just how special this massive shop is. (I was going to write ‘little shop’ but it’s huge in so many ways).