Somerfield

Dear all, 

When J and I flew to England to find a house and school, our relocation agent took us down Bath Road in Cheltenham.  He suggested that we try to find a home close to this shopping district, because we would be spending a lot of time there. It is THE place to shop for everyday essentials:  a chippy (fish and chip joint), 2 chemists, 2 butchers, 2 grocery shops, 3 Indian restaurants, the post office, a kitchen store, a green grocer, a deli, a bakery, an office/art supply shop, an old fashion shoe store and a repair shop like on Sesame Street except I’m pretty Luis wasn’t laundering money like these owners are.

The sidewalks were crowded with merchandise for sale, parked bikes, shoppers, window washers and postmen.  I couldn’t imagine myself there.  Essential shopping?  Really?  There was no Target, Old Navy or Barnes and Noble.  There wasn’t a single drive through or bagel shop. Not a Mattress Giant or Korean nail spa.  No Petsmart.  No Starbucks.  No TGI Fridays.  No seagulls hovering above an urban sea of blacktop and minivans.

We found a house just a couple blocks from this shopping Mecca.  I shop on the Bath Road nearly every day. 

My first venture to Somerfield, a grocery store, left me digging around my bag for hand sanitizer.  It was dirty.  The floors were grimy, the shelves crusty, the choice paltry.  The bucked toothed, greasy haired carnies that manned the tills didn’t look at all like the nice moms who worked at Target.  I suspected I wouldn’t last long in this country.

It didn’t take long, though, before I got used to the sticky floors and the awe-inspiring lack of service.  I kind of like that I can shop in a place five or six days a week, year after year and never be offered so much as a knowing glance.

Shopping there is like snooping through the grade school janitor’s closet:  Standing at the altar of organized filth, with its dirty contents neatly organized on shelves, is exhilarating.  Exchanging nervous glances with the tattooed bad ass in charge, electrifying. 

I feel a kinship to Somerfield’s patrons:  we are a slightly anti-social people and we are lazy.  We shop at Somerfield simply because it is a block closer than the other cleaner grocery store.   We’re a pretty pathetic lot. 

When an enormous hairy spider climbed out from behind some bananas, Somerfield emptied; its patrons fled, all screaming and arms flailing onto Bath Road.  They stopped traffic and the event made the front page of our local paper.  It made me delight in this grotty place all the more.  

I see a faint look of concern pass over our visitors’ faces when they enter our little shop.  I see their lips curl ever so slightly, a combination of wonder, disgust and pity.   They ask if Somerfield is a convenience store. ‘Nope. It’s Somerfield. It’s where I shop’, I say proudly, ‘And where YOUR next meal is coming from.’

And now it is closing. 

What a drag.  I will now have to shop at the Co-op, which is brighter and fresher and has a better selection. The cashiers at the Co-op are lovely people and they do not possess any of the freak show qualities I find charming.  For instance, the Co-op cashiers bathe and the women are clean-shaven with a low rate of tattoage.  Plus, they are downright pleasant which I find terribly grating, but in time, I’ll get used to that, too, I suppose.

With love from England,

T-Ann