Supermarkup

A sunday afternoon in the early summer can be a delightful time if you are free and easy to do what you want to do.

It could be a case of just languishing in a deck chair in the garden or something more energetic such as a long walk in the open countryside, along a cliff top or through the local park.

There are certain things that are part and parcel of a typical sunday in the UK.

One is the sound of the ice cream van as it does its rounds through the neighbourhood. There is something reassuring and exciting, even to older members of the family and even the pet dog, about the wafting electronic tones of something that sounds a bit like Greensleeves or could as easily be the theme tune from The A Team. There must be a bit of a cottage industry in the production of the tunes broadcast by tannoy from the roof of an old Comma Van which are somehow familiar but not technically close to an original song so as to be the subject of Royalties or requiring a PRS Licence.

Another quintessentially British thing is the ability of our population to just stop at random and unpack a wonderfully colourful, varied and nutritious packed lunch to feed the masses. My Mother has been a particularly skilful purveyor of the packed lunch showing imagination and yet providing for her five tetchy, miserable and hungry offspring just exactly the things to stave off a mutiny or mass sulk. Marmite sandwiches by the pallet load, packets of crisps, diluted orange squash with a faint odour and tincture of Tupperware plastic, swiss rolls in small foil wrapped single servings and all balanced by a freshly sliced up apple or pear. It was always a veritable feast and we only really pretended that we would rather have gone to one of the numerous Wimpey Burger Bars or Little Chef Restaurants that we had passed in the family car on route to or back from a day out or a holiday.

The verges of our main  trunk roads and dual carriageways are punctuated with parked cars that have pulled over for the symbolic lunch break or just to sit and read the newspapers. I have even seen cars occupying those elevated parking bays for police vehicles as though considering it to be an enhancement to their dining experience or in one case, in the middle of a large traffic island as though they originally found somewhere to stop in a pea-souper of a fog and only realised their location when it lifted.

On a cliff top walk there may be an opportunity to stop at a café with excellent views and tea and scones to match.

Even in perceived remote and unpopulated rural areas you are unlikely to be too far away from the sights, sounds and cooking smells of a mobile catering outlet, whether in a caravan, trailer or just converted transit or luton van format.

My favourite activity for a sunday is just a bit of a wander in the local parks and municipal gardens.

These can be nothing more than a glorified playground, albeit heavily graffiti sprayed and litter strewn or a series of sports pitches with a selection of wooden bench seats if not subject to the same creative talents of the graffiti artist or a dedicated arsonist.

The larger City Parks which were established in the Halcyon days of Victorian England can be quite spectacular with extensive planting of ornamental and specimen trees and shrubs, an arboretum (look it up people), an aviary with exotic birds, perhaps a petting zoo or enclosure with rare breeds and a kiosk at which to purchase that essential bit of refreshment to make the whole day special.

In the climate of recession and Council Cut Backs the provision of a catering facility by Local Authority staff or through a rent paying concession may have become a victim to the downturn and that complimentary Strawberry Mivvy, ice cold soft drink or chilled chocolate bar may have to be sourced from as close as possible to the Park so as not to infringe on the enjoyment of seeing and being seen in public.

That was the motivation today of trying to find a traditional corner shop within a short walking distance of the park gates in which to spend a reasonable sum on treats and fripperies of an edible kind.

I was extremely disturbed to find that three shops within my planned catchment for investigation were not open during the peak visiting hours for the public to the park grounds.

Whatever has happened to the reputation of the British as a nation of shopkeepers?

I accept that this was very much an insult at the time of its muttering by Mr Hitler but did nevertheless ring true as an indictment of dedication to service, an entrepreneurial flair and sound commercial sense for which we Brits are synonyous.

Shoot me down if you want but that Maggie Thatcher was brought up in a shop culture and this was no more evident in her subsequent political dealings such as having a fire sale of the State Enterprises.

The three shops which had their doors rattled by me in exasperation were definitely still trading as a going concern and through their display windows were well stocked and inviting to customers and passing trade alike.

Just not on a Sunday.

This could of course be down to religious convictions or as simple as all three proprietors conspiring to all go on holiday at the same time. A bit of a Cartel arrangement in the local general store sector.

There were plenty of people milling about like myself and a few were engaged in a critical analysis of the demise of the small sole traders in the face of the corporates and multi nationals who have spread out from their traditional locations to have representation in every postcode district.

I was determined to have my snacks and so sought out any other shops in the locality which were open. One nicely set out shop looked as though its owner was certainly going places and if his first venture I am sure that he would soon expand into other areas of the town. I looked around the store but saw no sign of the man himself. I was disappointed as I would have welcomed an opportunity to wish Mr Sainsbury all of the best and perhaps persuade him that an orange signage was a bit too much for a conservative clientele very much like myself.