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As most of you will know, I've been out of retail not for some time - it's pretty much the second anniversary of my freedom. Since this tale took place some two years ago, I thought I'd dust it off.
My father's shop was a general food store, and one on which a few members of the community relied. There weren't enough people to support us who actually shopped with us, and we were losing money for the last two years after a several-year decline. People paid lip service to the idea of local shops, but they spent their money at the supermarkets who had all the shiny deals and - on many occasions - lower-quality produce.
Naturally, there were dismayed people when the news broke. The quietly resigned ones had a dignified air, but there were the vocal ones who liked to be heard to be concerned for the neighbourhood. One in particular was a member of the local parish council (locally elected people who want to say which hedge should be trimmed based on the budget they have).
"It'll be a dark day for the area when you're gone," he would mournfully intone on a regular basis. When he had left on such occasions, we spent many minutes reminiscing on the number of times he hadn't spent money with us, and they were legion.
Some six weeks before we were to close the doors for the last time, Concernd Man came in with a carrier bag. He'd been shopping at the local supermarket and had seen a remarkable deal on legs of New Zealand lamb. They were cheap, so he'd decided to buy two, but they were two big for his freezer. He needed them cut in half for freezing (refreezing?) down.
Guess why he'd come to me?
I did the deed on two grounds:
First, I wanted to see if he would offer us anything for doing it. I'd have pointed him at the lifeboat - our charity of choice - had he done that. Besides, it would only take about thirty seconds per leg.
Second, it would generate a decent tale for these pages.
In the end, however, he offered not one thing, but that was the only occasion in memory where he hadn't whinged that we were closing.
Of course, I did the decent thing and told everyone in the area about it.
Rapscallion
My father's shop was a general food store, and one on which a few members of the community relied. There weren't enough people to support us who actually shopped with us, and we were losing money for the last two years after a several-year decline. People paid lip service to the idea of local shops, but they spent their money at the supermarkets who had all the shiny deals and - on many occasions - lower-quality produce.
Naturally, there were dismayed people when the news broke. The quietly resigned ones had a dignified air, but there were the vocal ones who liked to be heard to be concerned for the neighbourhood. One in particular was a member of the local parish council (locally elected people who want to say which hedge should be trimmed based on the budget they have).
"It'll be a dark day for the area when you're gone," he would mournfully intone on a regular basis. When he had left on such occasions, we spent many minutes reminiscing on the number of times he hadn't spent money with us, and they were legion.
Some six weeks before we were to close the doors for the last time, Concernd Man came in with a carrier bag. He'd been shopping at the local supermarket and had seen a remarkable deal on legs of New Zealand lamb. They were cheap, so he'd decided to buy two, but they were two big for his freezer. He needed them cut in half for freezing (refreezing?) down.
Guess why he'd come to me?
I did the deed on two grounds:
First, I wanted to see if he would offer us anything for doing it. I'd have pointed him at the lifeboat - our charity of choice - had he done that. Besides, it would only take about thirty seconds per leg.
Second, it would generate a decent tale for these pages.
In the end, however, he offered not one thing, but that was the only occasion in memory where he hadn't whinged that we were closing.
Of course, I did the decent thing and told everyone in the area about it.
Rapscallion
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