Woolworths store number 995, shortly after opening in 1958
I loved Woolworths. I loved their glue sticks and rulers; their chocolate oranges and boxes of Matchmakers. I was genuinely distressed to witness the last days at the close of 2008. At the time, a friend did rather pop the balloon of nostalgia when he enquired “Yes – but when was the last time you bought anything from them?” I was pretty much covered in that department, but his query was, I think, aimed at Britain at large. As another friend, on a broadly similar theme, once asked “Have you ever met anyone who can name one of the Busby Babes?”
Nostalgia did, in fact, feature prominently in the reporting of Woolworths' demise. Ordinary people recounted Saturday toys and Saturday jobs, favourite staff, treats for girls and buying their first ever single from the record counter. OK, maybe it did get a little misty-eyed, but then I've always pinned rose-tinted rosettes on the past. I'd much rather the comforting middle-distance of what was, than the imagined horrors of what will be.
Anyway, I have documentation to prove my loyalty: every awful photograph on every passport I've ever held was taken in that same branch of Woolworths. That one location, on the left, near the back of the store, helped catapult me across the world. And each flash from beyond the Kia Ora-coloured curtain recorded my disintegration at regular ten-year intervals. The most recent snap? It was from a ghastly talking machine in a supermarket. You do wonder from where the next one will emanate.
The case for the prosecution seemed to spin on the notion that Woolworths had failed to move with the times; it was anachronistic. Even when it tried to be hip it got it wrong. Like someone's dad at a party. Depending on who you were speaking to, the store had tried to do too much or not enough. It was either A) “It's where I buy Baby Bio – so why are they selling Friends box sets?" B) “I want to buy 5 litres of Magnolia and a Ford Orion under one roof.”
Whatever the truth, it didn't matter to me. Maybe Woolworths was muddled and out of date. And maybe that was the point. Nevertheless, in December 2008, and without my consent, garish Closing Down Sale signs were slapped on Woolies up and down the land. Like an advent calendar in reverse, imposing posters counted down: 'Ten days to go'; 'nine days to go'... But to go where? It struck me that most countdowns culminated in an event: a shuttle disaster or a new millennium. This was more like the pre-cursor to an electrocution. It just felt all wrong, and quite like an older boy nicking something from your childhood that had made you feel happy. That still made you feel happy.
I was lucky: I had the luxury of feeling affronted without being directly affected. 30,000 Woolworths workers faced the more-sharply-focussed reality of redundancy. And from soup to nuts, what I saw on TV, and first-hand, showed the Woolies army displaying an authentic fondness for their workplaces and colleagues; the very definition of the recently-unearthed World War 2 slogan Keep calm and carry on.
Woolworths store number 995, shortly after closing in 2009 Watching/recently watched: Dead Poets Society; Finding Neverland; Brooklyn Rules; Frasier series 5; Nurse Jackie series 1; Great British Railway Journeys; numerous worthless TV shows
