Diary of a Shopkeeper, 14th January 2024

Like the rest of the country, our shop has been filled in recent days with talk of the Post Office scandal. Sometimes this has spiraled off in unexpected directions.

‘I see that dreadful woman Paula Vennells has handed back her CBE,’ said Mrs Stentorian, with even more vehemence in her voice than usual.

‘But not the three million pounds of bonuses she got for running the business,’ I said.

‘My main complaint,’ said Mrs Stentorian, ‘Is not so much the money as the honour. For her to be a Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire was intolerable. She was bringing the British Empire into disrepute.’

‘It’s quite a while, surely,’ I said, ‘since there actually was a British Empire.’

She looked at me with that mixture of pity and contempt I know so well. ‘It lives on, shopkeeper: in our hearts, in our minds, in our language. God save the Queen!’

Willie Pickle, who had been standing meekly at her side, cleared his throat. ‘King,’ he murmured.

‘I beg your pardon, your highness, I keep forgetting,’ said Mrs S, styling it out.

Kiwi Kate chipped in from over by the Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Speaking as a native of one of the ex-colonies,’ she said, ‘I’m surprised Britain still wants to celebrate its imperial past.

Mrs Stentorian’s face turned a shade of purple. ‘Being a parvenu from New Zealand – a parvenu country! – it’s not surprising that you don’t have an appreciation for our long history and culture. Anyway, the honours are not about celebrating our past.’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Kate. ‘They’re about acknowledging the contributions of ordinary people who do extraordinary things.’

‘And none of us would grudge anyone that recognition,’ I said. ‘Not least my own dear mother-in-law!’

‘Of course not,’ said Kate. ‘It’s the names I think need modernised. Get all that empire stuff out of it and replace it with something less political.’

‘Political?’ spluttered Mrs Stentorian, ‘It’s you who’re bringing politics into it. I suppose you’d like to introduce the Jeremy Corbyn Medal for Exceptional Services to Jam-making and Communism.’

‘Now now,’ I said. ‘Let’s all calm down. This is a cheese and wine shop, after all, not the Houses of Parliament. Standards of behaviour are much higher here.’

‘She started it,’ muttered Mrs Stentorian.

‘Yeah nah, you did,’ snorted Kate. ‘You colonised half the world.’

When lively conversations start in the shop I sometimes feel like the conductor of an orchestra, trying to ensure everyone gets their chance to be heard. Now I felt more like a harassed junior teacher on a bus full of unruly teenagers.

‘Would anyone like to try,’ I cried, smiling from one frowning face to the next, ‘A free sample Kex Choklad? They’re new in, all the way from Sweden. A bit like a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer, without the caramel.’

‘The caramel’s the best bit,’ grumbled Willie, as he held his hand out.

Soon everyone was munching away with enjoyment. Sharing food is a great peacemaker. But I had to think of some way to steer the conversation in a new direction when they’d finished eating.

‘One positive that’s come out of all this,’ I said, ‘Is that it proves once and for all that writing can change the world. If you tell a story as powerfully as Gwyneth Hughes did in Mr Bates v. The Post Office, people really listen.’

But no one was paying any attention.

‘I believe,’ said Mrs Stentorian, ‘That Mr Bates is being put forward for a knighthood. A fitting recognition.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Kiwi Kate. ‘He’s a man who stood up to authority! Why should he kneel for a tap on the shoulder from the same sword that’s honoured so many villains in the past?’

‘Order order!’ I called, to general disregard.

‘I believe,’ said Willie, ‘That Richard Branson has offered him a free holiday.’

‘SIR Richard Branson,’ said Mrs Stentorian, triumphantly.

Kate scowled. ‘If he’s any sense he’ll fly to New Zealand. And never come back.’

‘Not come back?’ said Mrs S, ‘But then he’d miss all the wonders of living in this…’

But I couldn’t hear her enumerate all the glories of the land, for she, Willie and Kate had processed out of the shop, continuing their conversation as they wandered up the close.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 17th January 2024. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions. I’m posting this one early, as the weather is so snowy that many folk will not have been able to get out for a paper.