August is a wicked month, wrote the recently late and lamented novelist, Edna O’Brien.
She, of course, was referring to the deceiving liberations of an Irish housewife on the French Riviera of the mid-Sixties. I mean something different.
It is that time of year when, in the brief and merciful absence of riots and counter-offensives, middle-class journalists write about being, well, middle-class.
These will take many forms but are largely variations on a theme. Having been to a particularly lovely bit of France, they will conclude that all of Britain bears the pox-scarred face of a Hogarthian strumpet. I’ve checked and it is rare that M. Le Journaliste sighs over the ugliness of rat-infested Paris suburbs and the Kalashnikovs of Marseille, having just come back from the glories of the Peak District. He may certainly do the former but he needs not compare and contrast to prompt it.
This cultural cringe will extend to continental supermarkets, wonderful darling, of which more later. If chronic, this August wickedness will prompt a novel involving an eccentric little car and a parade of colourful characters as ‘l’Anglais’ et sa famille attempt to settle into the cow byre they’re breaking themselves to convert in Twee-les-Eaux.
Having mentioned supermarkets, no summer is complete without mention of Waitrose – including guides on how to shop there – and laments over self-service checkouts. True, they’re a pointless irritation. Yes, they are as infected fleas to the shoplifting epidemic. Indeed, they are the perfect indicator of the corporate urge to employ nobody and avoid customers at all costs. But extrapolations that they form a threat to British life are surely wicked. And August.
Zenith or nadir to this summertime madness is surely the spat over Gail’s, which, should you be unaware, is an upmarket bakery chain. It is the I Saw You Coming of the baking world. I’ve never been in one because I avoid corporate ersatz artisanal in much the same way as I avoid pox-scarred strumpets. The word “artisanal”, of course, having been used as one in much the same way as “iconic”. Thanklessly put to a thousand empty purposes and then dismissed the bed chamber with the toss of a groat.
I have, however, looked urchin-like through the window of the Sevenoaks branch where, my snotty little nose steaming the pane, I saw many things to confirm my prejudices. Not the least being the fact that it was in Sevenoaks where banker wives pass over vast sums for sourdough and leave muttering “can’t they eat cake?” in hearing of the sans culottes outside. While wearing culottes. Just to rub it in.
Alright, I exaggerate a bit. But a picture painted, nonetheless, of the sort of area, the sort of customer and the sort of product in which Gail’s specialises. It’s called a business model. And very effective it has been too.
And it is ostensibly this fear of market forces that has the Communards of somewhere called Walthamstow Village – or Walthamstow as once it was known – in East London up in arms.
As their petition approaches a critical mass of 500 signatures against the looming presence of the chain, to “safeguard the soul of our beloved neighbourhood”, the future of independent traders is apparently at stake.
Alright, let’s go with that for a moment. Homogeneity of the high street, death of the small business, death of the high street are all well worth thinking about. And what we often avoid thinking is that we lament the local pub we never used, forget the hardware store and its man in a brown coat long gone as we nip into B&Q and tweak the nose of the bespectacled woman who ran the book shop – now a charity store – as we bring up Amazon on the laptop.
Our souls ache. But not that much. That soul in Walthamstow? Well, gentrified and riding high on spiralling property prices.
And as for chain bakeries, Grodzinski’s has had bakeries across the East End selling challah and beigels before bagels were misspelt.
It’s almost like there’s another reason. And here, of course, we hit peak middle class. In an ironic inversion of “failing to align with our corporate values”, it appears Gail’s doesn’t align with the more vocal of its population. The nexus being Luke Johnson, former boss of famous high street homogeniser Pizza Express and vocal in support of Brexit and against lockdown.
This has upset the bien-pensants of Walthamstow who, having recently stood Cable Street-like against the rioters, have been emboldened to sign up against sourdough. Well, Luke Johnson’s sourdough anyway.
Homogeneity of view is far less dangerous than homogeneity of high street, apparently.
August is a wicked month. And for some it’s an extended summer.
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