My Local

          Last Sunday, we took a walk around Portland, a chunk of the south coast surrounded by sea, except for the connecting Chesil Beach and the causeway built in its lee. It is essentially one big quarry, the southern tip of which is littered with abandoned blocks of roughly hewn stone and disused derricks. We sought refreshment in the old urban settlement of Castletown, but without success. Everything was closed and its dreary, deserted streets put me in mind of a film set on which some bleak, dark drama series might be shot.

          I was glad to get back to Plymouth, an altogether more uplifting place where, even though I have been here for just one year, I feel as if I now belong: I have made a few friends, know where to get things fixed, where to get coffee and where to buy the things I need. So, when driving back from Portland, I noticed the wheels of the van were wobbling slightly and instantly formed a plan of action. Of course, it had to wait until Tuesday, when everyone was back at work, but I took the van to the local specialist and wandered off to Cawfee round the corner. It appeared closed, despite it being late morning. However, the door was ajar, so I pushed in and found the apologetic owner, Matthew, finishing off his breakfast. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m still recovering from new year celebrations.” I grabbed a takeout, left him to his hangover and walked around the next corner to Tommy’s, my favourite junk shop. Now, I’m a big fan of junk shops, thrift stores, charity shops, bric-a-brac markets et cetera. This might be explained by the fact that I was raised in the aftermath of wartime rationing, or it may be that I have a frugal predisposition, but the throwaway economy has always seemed to me improvident. And, though I did fall briefly under the spell of wanton consumerism during the Thatcher years, I have seen the error of my ways and now subscribe to the idea that capitalism is a rapacious beast that needs reining in. Recycle, repurpose, make-do and mend are my watchwords and second-hand shops my hunting ground.

          Tommy is a large, ramshackle bloke of about forty, I guess, and his typically glum expression matches his languid manner. But he is friendly, always greets me by name and likes to share his thoughts on business and life in general. He presides over two cavernous rooms full of stuff that looks like junk, partly because he makes very little attempt at window dressing. The few items he deems valuable are locked in a glass display cabinet by his counter, while all the rest appear to have been recently ‘delivered’ by a tipper-truck. I have never seen him make any attempt to sort his stock and, on this occasion, he was positively avoiding doing so, sitting amid the jumbled heaps of house-clearances, painting pictures. “I didn’t know you had an artistic streak,” I said. “More like autistic,” he quipped. I asked to see the pictures – lurid, fanciful landscapes – and he explained that his mum had given him a painting kit for Christmas, in the hope that he would find it therapeutic to resume what had been a childhood interest. It seemed not to have cheered him up much, as he told me that his Christmas had been marred by his worries concerning his four children.

          I can’t help thinking that Tommy’s mood is adversely affected by his disordered surroundings. There’s nothing I can suggest concerning his family life, but he might benefit from the services of a retail professional, someone who can sort the wheat from the chaff. But I doubt he could find the enthusiasm for such a gentrifying, upselling project. Perhaps his destiny is to continue to inhabit a place that looks like a film set in which some bleak, dark drama series might be shot.