If Only

 

          I’ve been reading Paint Your Town Red, a study of the social and economic benefits that accrue when local authorities wrest back control of wealth-generation from the extractive clutches of globally inclined corporations. Preston, in Lancashire, is the celebrated model for this movement in the UK, but there are examples in other countries too. It would be simplistic to define the strategy as “buy local”, but the phrase gives an idea of the power it has to rejuvenate communities that have suffered the socio-economic privations of de-industrialisation and, subsequently, central government’s austerity programme. The argument for following Preston’s model is so convincing that I am disappointed it has not been adopted universally. Perhaps there is a lack of imagination at Town Hall level. Or too many vested interests. Or is it the “Red” in the title that scares conservatives off?

          On a day-to-day level, don’t we generally want to feel at ease in our locality? Are we not reassured by familiarity with our surroundings and a degree or two of intimacy with our neighbours? And if the local economy is flourishing, so much the better. As a recent incomer to my neighbourhood, I am working on fitting in personally and on getting to grips with the socio-political scene. I also engaged with the local economy last week, when it was time to get the campervan’s MOT certificate renewed. I took it to the garage at the top of our street which, despite its ramshackle appearance (I had been assured, by a friend), is reliable and honest. The experience was very 1960s. At one end of the open-fronted workshop were two signs fixed above the folding doors, “OFFICE” and “NO SMOKING”, though the office was not visible and several of the men coming and going were smoking. Nobody volunteered to assist me, so I asked someone who looked as though he might be an employee (uniforms having yet to be adopted) where the invisible office was. He pointed inside and round the corner. I donned my mask and entered. The ageing proprietor sat behind a counter, defended from covid by a Perspex screen. All around him was a blur of spare parts and paperwork. In a casual, friendly manner he urged me to remove my face mask, introduced himself as Frank and asked, specifically, for my first name. Then, having established where I live, what I do and how I fit into the scene, assured me that the job would be done promptly. Frank later phoned to advise me there was remedial work to be done, it would be ready the following day and his terms were cash only. When I collected the van, he gave me the computer-generated certificate and a receipt, handwritten on an old-fashioned tear-off form the size of a sheet of toilet tissue. To conclude the deal, he insisted on bumping fists through the gap in the Perspex. I could not help liking him and admiring his determined approach to old fashioned small-business principles: make sure the customers return and don’t spend the profits on fripperies, take them home!

          Frank provided me with good customer service, a welcome to the community and an opportunity to fuel the local economy. By contrast, I got none of these things during my recent dealings with TalkTalk, the Internet Service Provider, who, like most big utility companies, are reluctant to engage personally with customers. When I did manage to speak to one of their reclusive agents, their main concerns were whether I could pass security (TalkTalk has history here) and whether they could fob me off back to a web-based solution. I also tried the “chat” line, a sort of email communication, but I gave up after two hours of going round in circles with an unempowered call-centre operative. That night, I dreamt that a polite, smartly dressed young man with a suave manner called at our flat. He said he was from TalkTalk and had come, personally, to resolve my problem. I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought he said his name was Frank.