ANALYSIS

MARKS & Spencer was never just a shop. It was hallowed ground, a purveyor of top notch goods.

Home of the stout summer cardigan and doubly reinforced gusset.

M&S was no mere emporium. For middle class families and those whose Hyacinth Bucket style aspired to that cosy coterie, it was a place of pilgrimage, recreation and even sanctuary.

Who knew if M&S staff really were the polished product of superior training, enjoying free health care and hairdressing, better poised to fit bras or select socks than employees of less illustrious outfits.

In my 1960s childhood, an M&S label meant quality guaranteed. The item, invariably a classic, was built to last.

You scrimped, saved and stumped the cash and made an investment purchase.

You left with your trusted carrier bag containing the raincoat of your life which would nurture you through your dotage.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

We stopped wanting camel coats to warm us and craved instant sartorial gratification of disposable fashion – trendy one week, in the bin the next.

We embraced online shopping, latching on to eye-catching items in our front-room, not even lured off the sofa by an M&S chicken kiev.

Now 100 stores, a backbone of the British high street, are to bite the dust.

And we who loved the brand with passion – so fierce, none of us can remember the last time we bought more than a scotch egg and pair of panties there – are reeling.

Can we muster a renaissance before M&S follows Woolworths?

And we rue our part in its passing?