Ah the
romance of life in a small town newsagents shop where life is measured in
newspaper sales, bars of Cadbury’s chocolate, Woodbines, Senior Service, cups
of tea. Much TV is watched in the 2-room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) above
the shop. Arthur is a father now.
Alice spends a lot of time with baby Cynthia. The shop takes all his time.
Newspapers keep coming, headlines keep blaring…’CLAY BEATS LISTON!’, ‘BEATLES
INVADE AMERICA!!’, ‘TEXAS SNIPER KILLS 12!!!’, ‘MINI-SKIRTS ARE IN!!!!’
They all have to be sorted. Shelves have to be stocked. Inventories kept.
Sweets and cigarettes and newspapers. Arthur’s life revolves around them.
Flying saucers, sherbert dips, gobstoppers, glow worms, jelly fish, black jacks, cherry lips, sugar mice, spearmint chews, jazzies, mintoes, teacakes, fizzwizz, Pontefract cakes, aniseed balls, bulls eyes, licorice torpedos….where is he supposed to put all the stuff? Too high and they can’t see it…too low and the little buggers just help themselves.
Very irritating too the way the sales reps keep coming round with new products. The problem is finding enough counter space. And it’s not easy to predict what the children will go for. Things like Mars Bars and Smarties are always popular but some of the newer confections just seem to sit on the counter for weeks. Nobody even wants to try them.
And all the cardboard promotional material that comes with them just seems to add to the confusion. The cut-out displays aren’t always easy to assemble. And what to do with all the old cardboard boxes? It occurs to Arthur that recycling might be the way of the future.
He does get up to London sometimes. He’ll go to a museum perhaps or visit Simon.
Here they are now enjoying a quiet pint in a pub in Kensington.
‘So Arthur.’ Asks Simon, ‘What are you up to?’
‘Oh you know,’ says Arthur, ‘running the shop. Reading a bit. Watching telly.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Pretty much. There’s the occasional picnic to places like Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo.
I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he sell the shop? We’ve talked about it…but what would we do?’
‘Sounds as if you quite like the security and routine.’
‘In a way I do.’
‘What do you do exactly then?’ Arthur asks in a transparent attempt to keep the dialogue going.
‘I do rock writing.’ Says Simon.
‘What’s that?’
Simon explains. “It’s easy. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”
‘So what’s the point?’
‘Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Not to mention the crumpet of course. Lots of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but….’
‘I know,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s only rock and roll but you like it.’
‘Hey that’s a good line Arthur. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.’
‘I could try my hand at writing I suppose…but what could I write about?’
‘Anything. You hitchhiked to India…write about that. Or why not write about being a newsagent? You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the safety net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something…er… groovier. Arthur sounds a bit square.’
Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but he didn’t realize it was square.
‘I’m not really into music.’
‘What about politics? Where do you stand politically?’
‘Not sure if I’m Liberal or Conservative to be honest. I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.’
‘Most people I know are anarchists. They’re just playing at it really. Have a look at this.’ Simon produces what looks like a sheet of pink blotting paper. Arthur notices that it has been divided into half-inch squares.
‘LSD’, says Simon, ‘Owsley White Lightning to be precise. Want to try a hit?’
Arthur has read about this stuff in the Daily Mail. He’s in two minds. The moment of truth has arrived.
Sweets and cigarettes and newspapers. Arthur’s life revolves around them.
Flying saucers, sherbert dips, gobstoppers, glow worms, jelly fish, black jacks, cherry lips, sugar mice, spearmint chews, jazzies, mintoes, teacakes, fizzwizz, Pontefract cakes, aniseed balls, bulls eyes, licorice torpedos….where is he supposed to put all the stuff? Too high and they can’t see it…too low and the little buggers just help themselves.
Very irritating too the way the sales reps keep coming round with new products. The problem is finding enough counter space. And it’s not easy to predict what the children will go for. Things like Mars Bars and Smarties are always popular but some of the newer confections just seem to sit on the counter for weeks. Nobody even wants to try them.
And all the cardboard promotional material that comes with them just seems to add to the confusion. The cut-out displays aren’t always easy to assemble. And what to do with all the old cardboard boxes? It occurs to Arthur that recycling might be the way of the future.
He does get up to London sometimes. He’ll go to a museum perhaps or visit Simon.
Here they are now enjoying a quiet pint in a pub in Kensington.
‘So Arthur.’ Asks Simon, ‘What are you up to?’
‘Oh you know,’ says Arthur, ‘running the shop. Reading a bit. Watching telly.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Pretty much. There’s the occasional picnic to places like Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo.
I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he sell the shop? We’ve talked about it…but what would we do?’
‘Sounds as if you quite like the security and routine.’
‘In a way I do.’
‘What do you do exactly then?’ Arthur asks in a transparent attempt to keep the dialogue going.
‘I do rock writing.’ Says Simon.
‘What’s that?’
Simon explains. “It’s easy. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”
‘So what’s the point?’
‘Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Not to mention the crumpet of course. Lots of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but….’
‘I know,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s only rock and roll but you like it.’
‘Hey that’s a good line Arthur. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.’
‘I could try my hand at writing I suppose…but what could I write about?’
‘Anything. You hitchhiked to India…write about that. Or why not write about being a newsagent? You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the safety net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something…er… groovier. Arthur sounds a bit square.’
Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but he didn’t realize it was square.
‘I’m not really into music.’
‘What about politics? Where do you stand politically?’
‘Not sure if I’m Liberal or Conservative to be honest. I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.’
‘Most people I know are anarchists. They’re just playing at it really. Have a look at this.’ Simon produces what looks like a sheet of pink blotting paper. Arthur notices that it has been divided into half-inch squares.
‘LSD’, says Simon, ‘Owsley White Lightning to be precise. Want to try a hit?’
Arthur has read about this stuff in the Daily Mail. He’s in two minds. The moment of truth has arrived.
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