A Local Shop for Local People

MY LOCAL SHOP*( there's nothing for you there).

Let's face it. All small rural communities bear some resemblance to the fictional dystopia that is 'Royston Vasey'. With all that inbreeding over the centuries seriously depleting the gene pool, is it any wonder that the quotient of mong brained idiots, web toed dysfunctionals and preternaturally gifted banjo players is significantly higher than average? If it hadn't been for the advent of the bicycle enabling inter village copulation on an enhanced scale, god knows what sort of strangely deformed semblances of humanity would be wandering the village lanes molesting the local wildlife.

To the local population of slightly deranged, six toed locals, have to be added the 'incomers'. This lot aren't that much of an improvement. Burnt out deadbeat ex hippies, bearded and sandled eco flat earthers, dolescum spongers moving to the sticks to be out of reach of the DSS. That about sums them up. The odd normal individual does turn up, but they don't last long. Perhaps they get eaten, or maybe they are sacrificed at the local shop petrol pumps to satisfy some strange pagan deity. It's hard to say.

The local shop, is of course, at the centre of the community. My local shop is a classic of its type. All types of tinned comestibles, confectionary, fags, and prophylactics are available to the casual browser. The proprietor, Dougal, is a figure of some standing in the community. Not only does he keep shop, he also runs a sub Post Office and has a sideline as head of the local fire brigade. All in all, he is a one man Trumpton. He opens the shop for twelve hours daily and only takes three days holiday a year. No European Working Time Directives for our Dougal, I can tell you.

Nothing is too much trouble for Dougal. Should you be in need of..ahem..condoms, Dougal will happily accommodate you. A quiet word in his ear (assuming that no ladies are present) will ensure that Dougal shuffles into the back storeroom and emerges with the required items decorously wrapped in a brown paper bag. Thoughtful and efficient. Not so sure about the efficiency of the condoms though; there's so little call for the things round here that they're probably made out of bakelite.

Dougal is invaluable; it's his assistants that are the problem. There must be an unwritten rule that states that local shop assistants must be moth eared trolls with facial warts and an inability to perform even the most basic simple arithmetic. I'm convinced that when Dougal has these bag lady harpies manning the till his turnover must drop by 75%.

It mystifies me why he employs them. Perhaps they're just there to keep an eye on the out of date sausages, just in case they make a sudden and unexpected bid for freedom.

Dougal has asked me to let you know that his goods may be ordered at www.mylocalshop.co.uk.

* This really is my local shop.