It seems that in whatever location a person might live, a
supermarket is never very far away. Whether one lives in a city or the suburbs,
or even in a rural area, it is certainly the case that a supermarket will exist
within a ten minute drive of that location. Supermarkets are everywhere. The
modern supermarket is something remarkable: vast, clean white floors crossed
with evenly spaced displays of carefully parcelled goods in neat rows. So
clinical. Supermarkets are remarkable in the way that they have convinced so many
of their convenience, despite their out of the way locations often inaccessible
to walkers or public transport. When within their walls the shopper is dazzled
by the array of choice. On a single aisle one may find up to twenty different
types of strawberry jam, though no damson or blackberry. It is interesting the
degree of homogeneity which is disguised behind the seemingly limitless array
of goods. Supermarket shopping is easy, but not fun. It is convenient, but not
rewarding. Rarely do you see a person shopping in the supermarket with joy.
When I was a child, supermarkets were extremely rare.
Instead people shopped on their local high street. They wandered in and out of
each shop buying their meat from one, their vegetables and fruit from another.
For frozen goods there were special shops with rows and rows of freezers, all
closed, their contents disguised behind opaque lids that one had to lift to
uncover their contents like a treasure trove. There were shops for newspapers
and confectionery, shops for bread and baked goods, shops for shoes, shops for
music which sold not just rock and pop albums but also musical instruments and
sheet music. There were shops for general dry goods, grocers’ shops, which sold
nuts by the pound, great vats of flour. The floor of the butcher’s shop was
covered with sawdust and wood shavings; the butcher’s apron bore vertical
stripes in red or blue and white, often streaked with brown, finger shaped
stains of dried blood. The black pudding with its fat intestinal coils always gave
me the shivers. Shopping took time, it was a ritual. Many shops had individual
owners, the chain store was rare. People took care over their offerings; bakers
prided themselves on their skill. If a cream bun cost ten pence more in one
shop than another but were the best cream buns in town, one didn’t begrudge
paying the extra.
Market days were always exciting. On Bank Holiday Mondays there
would be a special market; the streets were riddled with stalls that spread
across half the town and each turning brought new surprises. Stalls selling
books and magazines, handbags and cheap dresses, belts, treats, all sorts of
things. The food sellers would fill the air with marvellous smells: candyfloss
and doughnuts, hotdogs and burgers, the humble but quintessential chip. The
streets would be littered with food wrappers and plastic bags; dogs would wind
a path through forests of legs, feasting on scraps of discarded food alongside
the pigeons and blackbirds, brown fluttering of sparrows. Stall owners would
cry their wares, their offers “three for
a pound…two for the price of one…a fiver for the last one, they’ve all got to
go”. Markets are a carnival of colour, a confusion of sound, a jumble, a
lot of fun to walk around.
Supermarkets are convenient. They are the perfect reflection
of a world which measures value in terms of time and cost. If I had my choice,
I’d rather have a messy market day, meat wrapped in paper and a cream bun from
the best, if most expensive, bakery.
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