I saw three films at the cinema last week (Belfast, Memoria and Parallel Mothers). Once upon a time, this would have involved going to three different cinemas, but the 16-screen facility within the modern leisure complex on the edge of the city centre has replaced all those Odeons, Gaumonts, ABCs, Savoys, Empires and Rexes that once graced its streets. One or two remain as repurposed venues, others exist only in my memory, like the ABC, where, in 1963, I went to a live Beatles concert. The old Gaumont still stands, in our patch, Union Street, just off the city centre – and, last week, we bought it! When I say “we”, I mean the not-for-profit community building company in which we have shares. Union Street has several other grand but disused theatres, having once been the entertainment district, catering to ships’ crews, passengers and the local population. Not all of them can be saved – nor should they be. Space is valuable in cities and the needs of the population come first – which is why we have ensured that at least some of the redundant buildings are now in public ownership.
All over the country, cities are facing this challenge. Infrastructure that was built with permanence in mind becomes a liability when it is no longer needed. Not that this is a new phenomenon, but the speed of change has quickened to the point where we can all remember something that has had its time (Blockbuster video rental shops?) and will not return. But perhaps it’s fair to say that the onus is not just on city planners: we too must do our bit. Change is inevitable but we don’t have to be victims of it. We have at least two weapons with which to fight: our ability to influence and our ability to adapt.
Meanwhile, life – in all its daily mundanity – must go on. It’s not all about cinemas. Over the course of 25 years and three relocations, one item of our household inventory went missing: the butter dish. Butter does not feature large in our daily diet, but it is there and needs containing. Making-do with inelegant Tupperware or, worse still, knifing it straight from the greasy, tattered packaging had begun to irk me at last, so I determined to sort it out. Once upon a time (again), I could have enjoyed the experience of shopping in town for such an item, but it is no longer straightforward. The centre is a triumph of post-war 1950s planning that replaced the bombed-out heart of Plymouth with generous, tree-lined boulevards, modernist buildings of Portland stone and an elegant, airy covered market. It remains a pleasing and pedestrian-friendly environment, but its retail offering is diminished. There were, until recently, a kitchenware specialist – now migrated online – and four department stores, only one of which remains, with its depleted stock and air of desperation. So, where to find a butter-dish?
The answer, I thought, is the street where the vegan café and several charity shops have taken (or been given) leases. Charity shops have upped their retail game, many of them having learned to price their goods as ‘antique’ or ‘vintage’, while still presenting an eco-friendly, recycle-and-do-good option for shoppers such as me. I tried them all, without success. But one day I got lucky, when I stumbled, literally, over the threshold of a shop in the touristy Barbican district. “Bloody bi-focals!” I exclaimed as I regained my posture. “Mind the step,” said the lady in charge, into whose arms I had almost fallen. It’s an old joke, I know, but as I straightened up, my attention focused on the very thing I was looking for, a ‘vintage’ 1960s dish. And it was reasonably priced at £2. Maybe she needs to visit the optician, I thought as I tapped my phone to pay, then made my contented way home through a haze of nostalgia for a lifestyle eclipsed.
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