Diary of a Shopkeeper, 14th February
The Shard looming over St Magnus. You don’t get that on Broad Street
It’s funny who you bump into, in the most unexpected places.
I was walking across London Bridge after a day’s wine tasting at the South Bank offices of one of our importers. When I say walking I should maybe say swandering: six hours of tasting, even when you spit out religiously, dulls the urge for strenuous activity.
So there I was, taking everything in as the afternoon sun glittered off the Thames. Was that a skarfie hanging its wings out to dry on the prow of the dazzle ship moored to the east? Was the sign ahead really advertising a Yole for sale? And what had it to do with frozen yoghurt?
And, for ony’s sake, was that really Mrs Stentorian striding towards me down the wide London pavement?
Yes, my eyesight wasn’t wine-fuzzed: there was no mistaking her voice, as she guldered into a mobile phone pressed to her lug. And then, exactly at the middle of the bridge, she suddenly slowed her pace, bellowed a farewell into her phone, and came to a halt.
‘Henrietta,’ I said, ‘It is you!’
She jumped, and turned her gaze on me, startlement crossing her face.
‘Oh! It’s you, shopkeeper. I didn’t recognise you with your mask on.’
‘I don’t have a mask on. We’re outside.’
‘What I meant was, I didn’t recognise you here, in London, I didn’t expect…’ She trailed off, and looked anxiously over my shoulder, and then back in the direction she’d come from.
‘So what takes you south?’ I said. ‘I’m tracking down good new wines for the year ahead. I’ve been doing it all day in fact. I think my total was 102. Might sound like fun, but my mouth feels like it’s been sand-paper, and my back hurts from stooping over the tasting tables all day.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ she said. ‘Have you got the time?’
I checked my watch. ‘Five to five,’ I said.
‘Goodbye then. I mustn’t keep you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’m finished work for the day. What about you? What takes you to these parts?’
‘Oh, just catching up with, eh, old friends, you know. And visiting Wren churches. One of my passions since I was a gal. I’ve just come from St Magnus the Martyr, actually.’
‘What, there’s a kirk here named after our St Magnus?’
‘Don’t you know anything about the history of the Orkneys? Yes: just at end of the bridge there, a beautiful tall spire and quite glorious inside. One of Christopher Wren’s most expensive churches, apparently, and you get what you pay for.’
‘Well, sometimes. Though some of the best wines I tried today were actually…’
‘Five to five, you say? Well, you better be getting along.’
I could have blethered for an hour, but she clearly had something else on her mind. So I got along.
As I reached the end of the bridge, I paused for a moment to look west. Sure enough, there was a white-stoned, round-windowed kirk. Not a patch on our cathedral, but not bad for London.
And now I got my second surprise of the afternoon. For rushing past the church, slowing slightly to glance up at the big clock sticking out from its tower, was none other than Willie Pickle. His hair and beard were as wild as ever, but he‘d made at least one concession to London fashion by leaving his blue boiler suit at home and donning a new-looking waxed jacket.
I went to greet him but he breenged past me, unseeing, and turned onto the bridge. A man on a mission. Though what that mission was I couldn’t imagine.
Aye, it’s funny who you bump into, in the most unexpected places.
The mystery of the Yole is solved! It turns out that what I was seeing was a sign for a branch of Yolé, a frozen yoghurt café, originating in Singapore but now springing up all over London. The mystery of what Willie was doing in London remains unsolved…
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 16th February. A new one appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.