A’s neighbourhood in London is mixed: mixed race, mixed class, mixed established/trendy. About half the corners in her street are occupied by newsagents-cum-local stores, invariably run by South Asians. They sell a lot of sweets and potato chips, cigarettes, liquor, an occasional apple or onion, and watery milk. It is a miracle they survive, but they do have a clientele.
Around the station the level of yuppiness rises: a French delicatessen, selling wine, croissants, cheeses, and rillettes in glass jars. The shop across from it is harder to place: fresh espresso in paper cups, meat, tinned vegetables, and fresh bread. I don’t get it. What’s their formula?
But hey! Who cares, if they offer good bread. . . .
From there we go to the shop on the hill, which caters for the environmentally conscious. Next to it an Indian restaurant with Formica tables, and further down a supplier of household goods – brooms and light bulbs –, and another of faucets, or television screens.
Thank goodness for the yuppie quasi supermarket, that has fresh local produce, eggs, good coffee, and all the other daily necessities. It also offers espresso in paper cups.
But hey! Who cares!