An Ode To Corner Shops

Corner shops, the aptly named pillars that hold up the tent of a society living out of convenience, high on pressure low on funds. 24/7 as standard.

Mid-week mid-day, mothers with prams and a lack of plans stand discussing the rising price of detergent, and had you seen the police down Northfield Road last night? Joined by proud nans holding the hands of curious toddlers, you’re getting big aren’t you, are you being a good boy for nanny?

After school rush, only 3 kids at a time. No hoods. A Snickers slipped in the trouser pocket, a packet of pickled onion space raiders through the till though, only 20p. Lucozade, original. Hubba Bubba, atomic apple. It is illegal to sell tobacco products to anyone under the age of 18.

Rows of crammed in essential ranges, stark white branded with the red band of cheap. Colorful packets written in Polish and Arabic. Linoleum floor blackened and slippery from the never faltering British rain.

Saturday night, a bottle of Russia’s cheapest and some king size Rizzla. A bottle of mixer, nameless miscellaneous ‘cola drink.’ Can I see some ID please? Challenge 25.

Sunday morning, pick up the papers, latest headlines of million pound bombs in foreign countries, food banks crippled with demand in our own. Passing thought. Baccy for Dad, milk, and bacon for a sarnie.

The wholesome contrast.

All the while, the unchanging face of the hub fulfils his role as convenience provider, part time councilor. Full time keeper of secrets, not only of shop. A blissful constant.

Corner shops.