Grantham. Car parking. Anger. Why we wont be shopping in Grantham in the future.

A couple of weeks ago Sharon parked in a South Kesteven District Council car park. She paid her money and put the ticket on the dashboard of her car. Unfortunately it was a blustery day and a gust of wind blew the ticket onto the front seat of the car. She didn't notice this so when she returned she found she had been given a £50 fine. She contacted the relevant office and sent in her ticket with an explanation of what had happened. They did not let her off the fine, however.The ticket wasn't displayed clearly according to regulations. She still had to pay the fine.

Naturally we were not pleased. We could have taken our appeal further but decided not to. This was because we have learned from long experience that getting involved in this kind of process  eats
 up your time and when you are self employed time is money. So we have paid the fine. The man in the office has won and no doubt he is pleased with himself for grabbing some cash for the South Kesteven coffers. Parking fines are such a convenient source of revenue!

Off course this business has a knock on effect that is not so beneficial to those coffers. Because we are angry -what did Sharon call them *%~** & **@**?- we are deterred from going into Grantham to shop now and certainly will not be using the South Kesteven Car Parks. They will be getting no more revenue from us so they are going to lose a lot more than £50 in revenue.

I'm not just talking about this because of our personal anger but because our experience is rather too common. Negotiating the one way system in Grantham is not easy and parking is difficult. Grantham used to have a bustling town centre and a wonderful market. Sadly there are few independent shops there now and the market is a sad remnant of what it used to be. I would like Grantham to be a thriving market town again that would be a joy to walk around. But it is unlikely to prosper unless The Council start making us feel welcome rather than making us feel like criminals or undesirable guests who are, in effect, being taxed to visit.

 And, of course, this story is being repeated in towns up and own the country, in towns that used to be called 'market towns' because people used to go to them to shop.

The Last Evenings of Summer.

The last evenings of summer.

In my garden wasps swirl around the grapes I picked and laid out for the sun to turn into raisins. I’d Googled it,  but it didn’t work. All I got was mouldy, vespid masticated globules . Blotchy. Disturbingly scrotal. Most definitely inedible.  Not fit for  mixing with my morning porridge oats.

Nature is not kind, it is not PC. Nature bites, stings, and dribbles and allows God denying  parasites to thrive: guinea worms, tape worms that encapsulate in the cerebral cortex, fungal infections that provoke hot sweats and itchiness in  inaccessible regions of one’s anatomy, liver flukes, toxoplasmosis, unrecognised  spores that colonise the central nervous systems….the theological implications  are immense.

Yesterday walked down the back lane. In the hedgerow I plucked at succulent blackberries. The last one that I raised to my mouth was topped with a grub that was so remarkable for its vivacity that I just had to stare  at it…a Naked Lunch moment…Not sure whether my inner feeling was one of awe or one of horror.  Or Sartrean nausea. [Sorry spellcheck doesn’t recognise ‘Sartrean’].

Round the next bend, just beyond the Devon Brook, lay a dead badger. Snout crushed by a car.  Grotesque, mocking  grin. Vortex of blowflies hovering above it, gyrating elegantly  in the odd puff of breeze. The badger was female. It was, clearly, pregnant.

I was glad to reach the top road where the air was fresh. But  I had to dodge rat-running Range Rovers that seemed intent on provoking me to play chicken. I observed further road kill there, and, amongst the rough tussocks and thistles of the verge, the junk food detritus of modern England. Interestingly there were more Red Bull cans than Coke cans, and more Chinese take away cartons than Indian ones.  There were, also, Foster’s cans, Old English Cider cans, Budweiser cans and Stella Artois cans. But  I searched in vain for the Carlsberg Special cans that the late and much missed Andy K. used to leave. This made me feel sad.

There is so much going on that your average watercolour  artist misses. Like the impossibly delicate and detailed cirrus clouds that I observed  this evening, like the young  swallows that  were swarming around the village church’s spire, twittering excitedly in anticipation of their long trip to Africa and like the bumble bees being busy, as they are proverbially  supposed to be,  on the lavender on my neighbour, Martin’s, ironstone wall.

I come in, pour a glass of Port. I want to  be on my own. I want to be with people. It’s that time of year: my birthday [I don’t celebrate it anymore], the drawing in of the nights , the final croppings of runner beans and courgettes. Ideally I would like to open a bottle of Malt whisky and sit up till four in the morning with a sympathetic friend and talk about life, books, the minutiae of early memories,  my wild speculations about pagan gods, my innermost feelings and fears, about art, about  cats, about events and incidents that are in danger of dissolving into the void and above all, about people, both the loathed and the loved.

It’s that time of year…and I’m going to pour myself just one more, small, glass of port. I’m feeling that feeling that is one part nostalgia, one part sadness, one part euphoria and one part something else that I haven’t  got the slightest comprehension of.

Seamus Heaney

Friday Thoughts...

How do you tell good poetry from bad? Use the synaesthesia test. Does it invoke multi-sensory visions? Yes? It's good! Seamus Heaney passes the test. 

You can also use the 'Does it make me want to write poetry test?'. Seamus passes again. 

You don't have to show your poetry to anyone. You can leave it in a drawer [that's what I do] or burn it. Like drawing, the act of writing sharpens your consciousness and, even if it doesn't produce anything worth sharing, that enhanced consciousness is of inestimable value.

Then there is the magic test. Does the poetry transmute ordinary experience, by some alchemical process, into something marvelous and sublime? Seamus...you had the Philosopher's Stone!

Earlier looked out at the sunset. A small patch of Cumulus cloud was the colour of Double Gloucester cheese. Next to it was a patch of sky, corn flower blue gradually mutating into turquoise...There were a few minutes of something marvelous and sublime. I wish I could have grabbed and hoarded it...but then dull clouds drifted over and it was gone.

The nights are drawing in and old Seamus has departed.

Green Salad!

Phil Ashcroft

4 hours ago · 

• Green Salad.
  
  This morning the scarlet flowers on my runner beans are glistening with dew. Bumble bees are bobbing about absorbed in their work. I feel they are happy, but that might just be my projection.
  
  I pick a green salad from the containers and beds near my back door.
  
  What do I pick? Coriander, fenugreek, basil, marjoram, beet leaves, rocket, spinach, mange tout peas, cucumber, Chinese mustard leaves, parsley, chickweed, a few tubular shoots from my Japanese bunching onions...I'll pick some lettuce later to add to the mix to make sure it isn't too exciting. The chickweed [Stellaria media] is a weed of vegetable plots but it's worth leaving a patch to harvest. It has nutty, earthy flavour and is full of nutrients. I recommend it.
  
  By making this list I must admit I'm bragging. But I'm also being evangelical: I want other people to enjoy growing their own salads.
  
  The more exotic leaves are actually easier to grow. They attract fewer pests and diseases and often grow rapidly. Rocket and coriander, for example, are ready in a few weeks and are delicious. You can get kilo bags of coriander seeds ['dhana'] from Indian grocery stores for a couple of quid. Just chuck a handful of seeds on the ground and add water. Why grow flowers when you can grow plants that not only look beautiful but you can eat as well?

  
  

Sunset 9th August. Crepuscular relaxation.

We spend as much time as we can on summer evenings sitting in the gazebo I built in our back garden just watching the birds, the clouds and the sunsets. It's more interesting and more refreshing than electronic distractions ...and its free of  advertising and propaganda! I do worry about the way the sky is often scarred by contrails, though. But that apart, I recommend crepuscular relaxation as a remedy for stress and depression and as a way of stimulating the imagination for creative purposes. 

After sitting outside I wrote the following on my Facebook page which my friends liked so I've pasted here below:

After the pink clouds of sunset come the pale silver clouds which look as though they are the platforms on which cherubs and Olympian Gods should be sitting and supping ambrosia as they chuckle about the foibles of mortals. This is the time the crepuscular creatures emerge-bats, barn owls, badgers- to forage and make their tweets, their hoots and their grunts. This is the time I sip a glass of port, listen to some music -tonight Sandy Denny , wistful and bittersweet-and allow my mind to meander and contemplate past times. Tonight I think about the Scottish summer evenings I witnessed when I was ten years old, when the gloaming went on for ever and their seemed to be, beyond the sleeping kings of the Isle of Arran, a glowing summer land where Celtic souls sang and celebrated some deep joy that I knew was possible but which would always elude me.

Apologies to those who failed to get a response from us via our website!

Due to a combination of glitches and misunderstandings on our part we have not picked up on messages sent to us via our Archives Crafts website.

We would like to apologise for failing to get back to customers and enquirers. We will be in touch.

The best way to contact us is through our Etsy site:  www.archives.etsy.com. But you can also now contact us through our website now that we have sorted out the problems we've had with it.

If you have picked up one of our business cards use the Email and phone numbers it gives to get through to us.

Thank you everyone who has been a customer this year. After an uncertain start, it's been a good year for us and we have really enjoyed meeting you all.

Best Wishes,

Phil & Sharon

Mary Portas comes to Loughborough Town

Mary Portas came to town last Thursday. She swept through the market surrounded by a flock of well polished local dignitaries and media folk. Ignored me completely. I was ready to voice my opinions to her but did not get a chance to. I did however glimpse her talking to the woman who sells school clothes. I was impressed by her bright flame orange hair from which, as I said to my Facebook chums, a strange power seemed to emanate. What was it? Celebrity seems to create a kind of magnetosphere around those that possess it. Everyone around her orientated themselves to her as though they were  an iron filling caught in the power of a  magnetic pole. I found I wasn't immune. I was craning my head in Her direction. I've got to confess that I wanted to be part of the action.

I had to make do with the secondary excitement of being interviewed by East Midlands Today.Asked about what I thought would improve trade in town centres, I said that cheaper parking was needed. I wanted to go on to say more but was not given the opportunity. 

On Saturday lots of people said to me 'Saw you on telly!' They seemed rather excited about seeing someone they knew on TV. It was as though a tiny sparkle of the magic of 'Celebrity' had settled on my shoulder for the day.  I didn't watch my ten second appearance myself. That would have been too disturbing. Was my hat on straight? Was there a crust of dry soup visible on my moustache? Did I display some kind of speech impediment of which I was previously unaware?

It's good to see some kind of work being done to save our markets and town centres. Some Councils, such as Cambridge, are doing little to support their markets but Loughborough seems to be interested in improving trade. I'm impressed by the two market supervisors on Loughborough Market, Jean and Mister Bird. They are both genuinely  concerned about traders and about the future of the market. It's sad, but such positive attitudes are not common in the field of market management.

Phil

Tesco's versus Swaffham Market 1977

As you might expect, Sir Terry Leahy's remarks about supermarket shopping being 'progress', didn't go down too well in this household. 'Progress' is dodgy word. It's always used by politicians and businessmen to  present some kind of change  that will benefit them but not us, as both wonderful and inevitable.

Let's look at the experience of supermarket shopping: you go through the doors into a brightly lit non-place with no individuality and glide about with your trolley in what I call a 'shopping trance'. I suspect if brain scanning techniques could be applied to shoppers as they go round you'd find that areas of the cerebral cortex to do with personality, and rational thinking are subdued or inoperable. I notice that if you meet close friends in the virtual reality of the supermarket, you rarely have a meaningful human contact with them. Usually you exchange tepid 'Hi's',  talk a bit  about the awfulness of the weather or the virus you've just had and then drift off to check the prices on Whiskas or beef/horse/mystery animal burgers. It's not living; it's the afterlife. Has anybody been able to write anything interesting about - you can't really call it 'the experience'- the 'non experience' of the supermarket?

Two of my favourite poems are set on market days: 'Miss Thompson goes Shopping' by Martin Armstrong  [ my favourite as a kid -Google it!]  and Tam O'Shanter by Rabbie Burns. It's hard to imagine a visit to Tesco's prompting such delightful poetry.

Personally I find myself recalling my summer in Norfolk in 1977 when I 'did the gaffs' with my friend Michael Rockerfeller [sic]. We sold gemstone and silver jewellery on a weekly circuit of markets. The 'Crown Jewell'  of this circuit was Swaffham Market on a Saturday. It was like a huge party. People bussed in from outlying villages and hamlets, the pubs were open all day long, a noisy auction would be taking place, local shops would be bustling. If you stopped and listened there was a tremendous  hubbub of conversation, shouting and laughter. You could observe people exchanging greetings and banter, gathering in convivial knots and then moving on. The stalls were very  diverse, and this I think is crucial, you could not predict what you would find next as you walked round. At that time there were all sorts of people from different backgrounds, such as myself and Mike, having a go at running a market stall. There was a sense of optimism and adventure in the air that is hard to imagine now. I think that is an objective fact, I don't think I'm looking back with rose tinted specs. The experience of that Saturday market was rich and juicy  and life enhancing. It made you feel ALIVE.

Now consider this. In your life you have visited a supermarket on thousands of occasions. Can you recall on of those? Do you draw a blank? I know I do! So is supermarket shopping, from a human perspective, the perspective of the quality of personal experience, progress?

By the way markets, the ones that have not been destroyed by 'progress', are still cheaper for most goods than, supermarkets. Every Thursday I spend about a tenner on fruit and veg on Loughborough Market and struggle to carry all the bags I end up with. My fruit and veg bill is probably a third or a quarter of what it would be if I shopped for the same produce in Tesco's.

One of the problems for markets is parking. Often car parks are too far away from stalls, or just too expensive. More on that issue another day.

Phil.