Demolishing a Prop of Personal History.

Before I moved here to Derbyshire I spent nine years living on the outskirts of a medium sized town in the neighbouring county. They were lean years following the collapse of my photography business, and I couldn’t afford to run a car so I walked everywhere. Fortunately, everything I needed fell within a two mile radius and so the imposition was easy to live with.

I did my grocery shopping at a supermarket about a mile away, situated on the edge of the town centre at the bottom of the hill. I went there three or four times a week and bought enough groceries to fit in a back pack.

Such a high frequency of visits meant that several of the staff got to know me, and in addition I would often bump into neighbours and people I knew from the theatre where I worked. Strange as it may seem, that supermarket became almost a home from home, or a kind of social club if you like. I can’t claim any specific ‘happy memories’ of the place, but the overall recollection carries a warm and comfortable resonance.

I took a walk around that side of the town today for the first time in several years, and discovered that the store had been demolished. I remembered the summer days, and the misty autumn evenings, and the Christmas colour, and the countless easy conversations with familiar people. It was a nice part of my history, and now it’s gone.

I seem to be saying ‘now it’s gone’ a lot lately. I’m thinking it even more.