Uttoxeter's Older Women.

I was standing outside a charity shop in Uttoxeter today, idly browsing the selection of DVDs in the wire mesh basket, when a middle aged woman came up to me and said ‘Hello, luv.’ She was wearing green trousers. I was inclined to answer ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ but such language is rarely spoken in Uttoxeter so I simply said ‘hello’ back. And then she proceeded to tell me where I could get a good time in one of the nearby villages, and it transpired that the kind of good time to which she was referring involved a show farm and demonstrations of wood turning. (Hopes of finding a surreptitious Soho were soon dashed.) I said ‘thank you’ and she walked away with a self-satisfied smile. Such things don’t happen in Ashbourne.

So then I went to another charity shop and was idly browsing the merchandise laid out on narrow tables, when another middle aged woman – one of the assistants, no less – sidled past me and, in so doing, brushed her bottom against my hand. Well, what does a gentleman do when a woman brushes her bottom against his hand? He remains silent, of course. But then she complicated matters by saying ‘Sorry, darlin’. I do apologise.’ Being a gentleman, I felt the need to respond. ‘Don’t mention it,’ I offered, and was immediately struck by the absurdity of such a response because she already had. Nevertheless, she walked away with a self-satisfied smile and went about her business. Things like that don’t happen in Ashbourne, either.

You might think that the link here is charity shops, but no: the next stop was the coffee shop where the toast-and-Americano lady was sitting with her toast and Americano while her nondescript husband munched his own toast absentmindedly. I sat at the next table, and was a little disturbed when the lady suddenly broke into a fit of wailing and sobbing (and squeaked quite a lot, too) while her husband regarded her absentmindedly (he’d finished his toast by then.) Eventually the dear old lady ceased her sobbing and all was well, and then they left. I omitted to notice whether any self-satisfied smiles were in evidence on either visage, but I doubt it.

This is Uttoxeter, you understand. Uttoxeter is very different from Ashbourne where the keyword is reserve in all things.

Next stop was the B&Q store on the retail park where I selected the best specialist gardening knife they had on offer (because I’m tired of struggling with the little old pen knife which used to be my brother’s and is both as old and as blunt as me) and made for the checkout. I did what I always do: chose the checkout operated by the youngest and prettiest of the female operators. (It’s what all men do, isn’t it? Isn’t it?) When it came to my turn to pay, the young and pretty operator deserted her post and was replaced by a grizzled and grumpy-looking middle aged woman. Isn’t it always the way?

‘Did she see me coming?’ I asked the grizzled and grumpy-looking one.

‘No, she was dealing with another customer. Since you’re buying a knife, however, I have to be sure you’re over eighteen. Are you?’

For heaven’s sake, Jeffrey, life is challenging you to find a witty response. I need notice of such a challenge. My mind doesn’t work as quickly as it used to. Erm…

‘Well, my mother died twenty four years ago, so I suppose I must be.’

That wasn’t so bad, Jeffrey. Well done.

The G&G one was suitably amused, and so I forgave her for being there. She even called me darlin’, so there you are. And it was Uttoxeter after all.

Last stop Tesco, where another middle aged woman gave valuable assistance (despite omitting to call me either luv or darlin’) when the self-service till I’d selected chose to have a strop. They do, you know. Uttoxeter Tesco’s self-service tills are legendary for their moodiness. Every week there are several which stand glaring at you with one hand thrust firmly onto the hip while a big notice on the screen reads ‘Don’t you dare come near me with your stupid shopping or I’ll scratch your eyes out.’ You think I’m joking? Come to Uttoxeter and try them some time. Ashbourne Sainbury’s self-service tills, on the other hand, are much different – more sedate, more self-effacing, and infinitely more reliable. Reserve in all things, you see.

But it’s Uttoxeter which has the characters while dear old Ashbourne does prosperous and smug exceedingly well. And this is the sort of stuff which really should be in the guide books, but never is.

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I just listened to a song on YouTube called Calls Me Home by some woman called Shannon LaBrie. It was really nice. I wonder whether she’s young and attractive and fancies a job in B&Q.