Market Town Tales

It usually takes less than a half hour to spot someone you recognise. Your old dinner lady. The guy who had the sweet shop on the corner. The couple who ran the butchers. They’re neither family nor friends, but they’re wonderfully familiar.

There are ladies who have always been elderly. Even two decades ago they were grandmas in calf length florals with pull-along trolleys. They’ve been dignified in age for twenty years, and we all know of them. Their permanence here something we take for granted.

You can trace a percentage of the town to someone you know. A great aunt, a former colleague, a neighbour, or a cousin of a friend. Several people are your cousins. Or your cousin’s cousin. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows you. From afar, at least, or by name or just reputation.

Then there are the lads that were in the year below at school, suddenly men pushing prams and managing the banks where they opened their first account at sixteen.  There are woman with faces you remember as girls, sitting cross legged with you on the carpet in pigtails and gingham.

Shops aren’t where you remember them. You first job is boarded up and the bakery is a chemist. Still, old faithfuls remain. The pubs. The photographers. The WH Smith. That’ll be there when we’re photos in the history books sold there.

Life beats here at a familiar pace. The routines and rhythms are reliable and safe. Saturday market and Tuesday cattle show. Annual Christmas light switch on and August festival day. Growing up, it’s too easy to take it for granted, to scorn even at the size and the limits.

Yet now it’s a haven. It’s clean, safe, and beautiful in places. Just another spot on the map, of course, made up of bricks and concrete, traffic and a disappointing council like a thousand other towns. But, it’s home and it’s special. It’s the same as so many places yet full of unique stories, faces, and most importantly, lives being led.

 

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