Pound Shops

Despite having the highest murder per capita ratio in London, West Norwood is a fairly stock standard suburb, for the most. The main drag consists of all the usual suspects - fast food chains, off-licenses, newsagents, hardware shops, supermarkets, chemists and a disproportionate and bewildering number of pound shops. Disproportionate, because there's always at least six or more. Bewildering because there's never the same number as there was the day before. It's not seasonal, it has no rhyme or rhythm but it is fact - in West Norwood at any rate. Pound shops are the fungi of the West Norwood retail-trading hub - they pop up overnight and disappear just as quickly.

I love the concept of the pound shop. It raises the middle digit at the middle class. It mocks the rich and befriends the poor, especially in the UK. Their motto - we sell shit and we know it, we're not hiding the fact, we're advertising it - in my opinion, rocks. Sure, our window displays are about as exciting as broccoli, and our staff show all the interest of a porn star holding hands, but you know we make sense. Go on, come in, bet you can't walk out without spending a quid.

It's because of this unwritten motto, that it's clientele are generally those that are less than fiscally fortunate. That and the fact that everything costs a pound. It's a kinda reverse financial discrimination thing.

Lady Elkington would love to pop in and really check out that rack of shop soiled nail polish she sneaks a peak at whenever she passes, but what if Mrs. Stoinkerfinger from bridge club were to spot her? What if? How could she explain that away? It's a British thang that contrasts directly with that Australian attitude of 'give a fuck'.

Maybe it's just me, but I find it very difficult to pass a pound shop.

I mean, what if dancing plastic daffodils in purple pots sporting little Roy Orbison sunglasses make a comeback, huh, what if? Why not pick up a couple? What's the damage? A quid, care factor! Those big bags of Crunchies are probably little more than honeycomb and chocolate rubble by now, right, but what if they're not, huh, what if they're not? I'm sure Lorealla is a top name in hair care products. Kid, Lorealla, you heard of it? And while I'm at it, in your opinion Andrew, am I showing any of the six signs of damaged hair?

Anyway, so I'm in the pound shop. I like to think of myself as decidedly working class but being Australian, I couldn't give a fuck anyway. I'm rooting round, sweating it up big time because I'm in a suit, the shop's a pokey little number with more clientele than aisle space and the potential for snaring a bargain always lifts my pulse a little. All the time, I'm repeating to myself under my breath, 'I'm not gonna buy shit, I'm not gonna buy shit.'

So you can imagine my bulging satisfaction when I saunter out with a fly swatter that plays Walk Like An Egyptian by the Bangles and 140 heavy duty black plastic garbage bags. All for two quid. Bitchin!

In an attempt to enhance my cultural being, I've made it a mission to read more of the classics. The local Tourettes Syndrome charity shop - their motto: there's plenty a bargain to be had ya fuckin horse-faced slut. It's not really, but you try working ya fuckin horse-faced slut into a story without using props.

Anyway, it is a charity shop, but it's for blind children - a noble cause, as is Tourettes - and they've got a few bookshelves that contain an aberrant collection of cookbooks from the 70's, owners' manuals for even earlier Ford Cortinas, everything Jackie Collins has ever written, thrice, and the occasional little gem. You crack enough oysters and you'll find a pearl. So after mucho browsing I picked up a copy of Twain's The Innocents Abroad and Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island at 25p a pop. Sad thing is I'm never gonna read 'em. I'm never gonna read 'em.

I blew the budget with some chicken from the local Favourite Chicken Shop (and fast becoming my favourite too now I might add - they use big chickens) and headed home with a spring in my step.