Diary of a Shopkeeper, 6th October 2024

If somebody visits the shop once every couple of years, it’s hard to remember many details about them and their preferences. If they bought a nice bottle of wine in the summer of 2021, I’m delighted to hear they’d like the same again, but I’m unlikely to remember exactly what it was. Sorry! By a process of deduction, and with much time scanning the shelves, I can usually work back to either exactly the same bottle, or something very close and likely to be equally pleasurable. If they can recall whether it was a red or white wine that’s a big help. And also whether they really bought it from K&G as opposed to, say, Lidl.

Such detective work isn’t necessary when Creighton and Elsbeth come in. This is partly because they’re so memorable – always visiting as a couple, always in identical expensive anoraks, always dissatisfied even before I start serving them – and partly because they never seem to buy anything. They don’t need me to remember their happy purchase months later, because they never make one. So it was this week, when their frowning faces bore down on me as I restocked the crisp and nut shelves.

‘Your young assistant has been less than helpful, ‘said Creighton, his face flushing.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘By the way, she’s not an assistant. That’s Erica, our manager. She’s always extremely helpful.’

‘I thought Lauren was your manager?’ said Elsbeth.

‘She was. But she had a baby on Wednesday, so she’s on leave at the moment.’

‘Still off?’ exclaimed Creighton. ‘I think Kemi Badenoch has a point when she says maternity leave has gone too far in this country.’

Elsbeth nodded vigorously. ‘Talk about a nanny state!’ she said.

‘If folk could get nannies,’ I said, ‘or at least childminders, they might come back to work sooner. But there’s a shortage across the county. Anyway, I think six months or a year off is okay. It’s an important time for a child and her parents.’

‘Our time is important too!’ cried Creighton. ‘I’d advise you not to waste it with socialistic rants.’

‘Remember,’ frowned Elsbeth, ‘The customer is always right.’

I sighed softly, then put down the box of crisps I’d been working with. ‘So, what can I help you with today?’

‘We’d like two tickets for the cinema,’ said Elsbeth. ‘Everyone’s talking about this film, and we don’t want to miss out.’

‘We don’t sell cinema tickets,’ I said.

‘That’s what your unhelpful assistant told us,’ said Creighton. ‘So why, in that case, do you have a poster for the cinema stuck to your olive fridge?’ He looked at Elsbeth in triumph and she gave his arm a squeeze.

‘It’s an advert for West Side Cinema,’ I said. ‘We’re happy to promote their next showing, but we don’t sell tickets. We’ve a poster for Restart Orkney over there, but it doesn’t mean we sell wardrobes.’

Creighton drew himself up to his full height. ‘If you don’t want to help us, we will take our business elsewhere,’ he said, glowering at me.

I leaned back against the whisky cabinet. I felt suddenly wobbly and needed support. ‘What film is it you’re wanting to see?’ I stuttered.

‘You’ve got his attention now!’ crowed Elsbeth.

‘I wish you to sell me,’ said Creighton, ‘Two concession tickets for The Runout. Even you must have heard about it.’

‘I’ve heard of The Outrun,’ I said. ‘In fact I saw it last night. I loved it.’

‘No, it’s definitely The Runout,’ said Creighton. ‘It’s the tale of a girl from the Orkneys who goes to live south and turns out to be a cricketing prodigy. Until, that is, she gets ‘run out’ during a critical test match. Traumatised by her experience, she returns to West Ronaldsay where she begins the long process of healing, by joining the Women’s Institute and taking up scuba diving.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite the story,’ I said. ‘Not of The Outrun, anyway.’

‘Now listen here,’ hissed Elsbeth, pointing a finger at my chest. ‘I’ll have you know that Creighton played silly mid-off for the Fettes College first eleven. What he doesn’t know about cricket could be written on the thin end of a stump.’

‘I must admit,’ I said, ‘I don’t really follow cricket.’

Creighton threw his arms up in despair. ‘It’s our national sport!’ he cried. ‘Remember the Tebbit test? You can’t love Britain if you don’t love cricket.’

‘The smell of leather on willow!’ said Elsbeth. ‘Those clean-cut young men in their crisp white flannels!’

I held up a hand. ‘Speaking of crisps,’ I said, ‘I really must get on with displaying these new Spanish flavours: truffle, paprika and Ibérico ham – deliciosa!’

‘I’ve had enough of your unhelpfulness,’ said Creighton, furiously. ‘If you won’t sell us the tickets, we’ll find someone who will. Come, Elsbeth, let’s try Restart Orkney.’

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 9th October 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.