Thereby hangs a retail as poor old customers are all over the shop

OH, the shops, the shops, what are we without thee? Actually, if I’m being perfectly candid, the shops mean little to me. I rarely buy clothes, for a start, preferring to convert old bin bags and tea towels to concoct mes ensembles. And, to all intents and purposes, where I live, on the idyllic Isle of Neverending Racket, we only have the Co-op, the community shop and the DIY place 23 miles away.

Further away still, there are other shops, for cosmetics, gewgaws and footwear, but generally speaking I poo-poo these. I could poo-poo for Scotland, me.

It was with a dangling jaw and dripping saliva, therefore, that your correspondent exclusively watched the scenes in England when the shops reopened. In Scotland, today, parents can often be found pointing their infants in front of the television news and saying “Look, that’s England. That’s how we could end up if we don’t do what Nicola tells us.”

Truth is, of course, we’re just doing all the same things a week or two later. We are using the English as an experiment, much as they did to us with the poll tax. At the time of dictating this article, we’re planning to follow suit anyway, and I expect the scenes to be just as desperate.

The most telling pictures from England contrasted the scene at newly reopened Westminster Abbey, where three folk turned up to hear some top bishops, and a Nike

Store, which was mobbed. My researchers tell me the punters were desperate for designer trainers.

I’m not meaning to sound wilfully obdurate but who cares if your trainers are made by Nike or Matalan? I don’t spend all my time looking at other people’s feet. Like the Finns, I spend all my time looking at my own.

Primark also featured heavily in the coverage. Folk have tried explaining to me the nature and purpose of Primark, TK Maxx (why do I keep thinking that’s a brand of socks?) and that one that sounds like a laundry label. But none of it sinks in.

I did stick my head in a Superdry once but it seemed to set off an alarm. I was already retreating anyway, aware by the furnishings and decor that this was not aimed at the Man of Taste.

Online, another front opened in the never-ending World War of Opinion, when the usual ultra-sensitive people hit back at those allegedly sneering at those in the queue for Primark, accusing them of being “classist”. This news just in: I micturate on all your -ists. Classist. Did you ever hear the like?

I have lived much of my life among the working class and can confirm that most of them are utterly dense. Arguably, however, they are not as clueless as the middle class. I know nothing about the upper class, other than that they should all be arrested.

High-heid yins across Britain have called for people to shop out of a sense of “patriotic duty”. This is a noble idea, particularly if your patriotism is directed towards China or Bangladesh, where most of the goods are made.

If I’m absolutely honest with you, and not lying as I have done in this article hitherto, I wouldn’t mind a wee daunder roond Markies in Inverness or John Lewis in Aberdeen. There is an air of civilisation about such places, much more than you’d find in an abbey, with its cold, grey, inhospitable stone and detectable odour of dampness.

I look forward to haggling at the tills once more and trying on about 42 T-shirts until I find one with a big enough logo to disguise my moobs. Of course, all such garments will have to be disinfected afterwards, though I think that, even before the virus, they used to burn anything I’d tried on.

Shops: they’re all part of life’s rich tapestry. As a return to normal life looms, therefore, and the warped lives we’ve lived for months are put behind us, let us weave our way to the shops even if, by the time I get there, I bet there’ll be nothing weft.

LOOSE ENDS

LIKE most decent ratepayers, I enjoy reading about the end of the world. It gives one hope.

This week, it was revealed that a rereading of the controversial, and arguably crap, Mayan calendar means the world will probably end this week.

Older readers may recall the calendar was originally interpreted to mean the world would end on 21 December, 2012. A few wackjobs took to the hills, as if that would save them, but most folk carried on as normal. And, of course, nothing happened.

Now, we’re telt there was mix-up matching the Mayan to the Julian and Gregorian calendars and, this time, we’re fur it. Ach well.

At the time of this article being glued to the page, tensions are rising between China and India, and North Korea and South Korea.

China and North Korea are both classed by the United Nations as “nutter countries”. However, of these two, only China is supposed to have nuclear weapons. Thank goodness for that.

That said, to my mind, only decent countries should be allowed nuclear weapons, as they are more likely to fire them off responsibly.

In the meantime, disappointingly enough, I suspect the end of the world is no’ nigh the noo.