I’m not a big fan of shopping. I generally only go when I actually need something and inevitably end up frustrated having been looking for a very specific item and not having had any success. I don’t particularly enjoy the experience of shopping as a leisure activity, let’s say.

That said, what I do enjoy is going into independent, unusual, interesting, or indeed historic shops, those which are local institutions, and have survived recessions, booms, the internet, wars, pandemics and any other disaster that may have befallen them over the years.

To begin with, I have memories of childhood and going into a department store called Voisins. It was mainly staffed by middle-aged women, apart from on the perfume counters, and you always felt a little watched by them, as if pesky children were persona non grata in such a high-class establishment. It probably wasn’t like that at all, but did seem to conjure echoes of the 1920s, if you can picture what I mean. So that’s what I’m talking about.

Here in Spain, there is a shop where I live called La Pajarita, which is a haberdasher come stationer, but it is so much more than that. To call it that does not do it justice. It’s an open secret that if you have had no success finding a specific item, go to the Pajarita and they’ll have it. Even if what you’re looking for doesn’t fall into the category of haberdashery or stationary. It’s a wonderful place, all its wares stacked higgledy piggledy and which the staff have no difficulty locating. One of the things I love best about it is that when you ask for something at the wooden counter, one of those that flips up to allow access (this is a shop which is absolutely not self-service) and along which there is a ruler to measure out ribbons and suchlike, a member of staff withdraws behind a curtain from whence he emerges a short time later with a selection of items which may fit the bill for you to choose from. I like to think it’s a portal to Narnia, a magical place where nothing is impossible, or in this case, unfindable.

Something similar occurs in ironmongers, or ferreterias, which are not shops where you trade in ferrets, disappointingly. The traditional shops also have a counter, behind which aisles of seemingly infinite shelves piled high with tools and anything you could think of for home improvments, plus some things you couldn’t, reach far into the distance. These are places where you can buy a single nail from a box mysteriously withdrawn from beneath the counter. Very useful when you don’t want to be obliged to buy a pack of 100 from a big chain store. It’s true that with this set up, you have to know exactly what to ask for or the back and forth can become farcical. I once went in to get a plunger without knowing the word. You can imagine. Mime, puzzlement, it all turned into a bit of a game of charades with many a wrong guess.

From café-bars apparently not having changed their decor since the 50s, mirrors on the walls, tiled floors, elaborate coffee machines, servers in uniforms, to key cutter-shoe repair workshops, shoes in various cubbies along the walls. From underwear emporia staffed by elderly women retrieving unmarked boxes from high shelves, to bookshops complete with ladders and spiral iron staircases, these places are stalwarts, a comforting fixture in our local communities, with personal service, often family businesses. Long may they continue to survive. Especially because I’ve just realised I’m in need of a single paperclip.

NEW PODCAST AVAILABLE! At Link below and on Spotify

Episode 32: False Friends