That was the wonder of…..

An entire nation throws itself into mourning.

News bulletins on every television channel lead with the same story – Woolworth’s is DEAD! In truth, not dead but terminally ill; there’s a few weeks life left in the old dog yet. A few weeks in which a grateful nation of greedy consumers can pay the last respects due to this once most venerable of British retail institutions.

     And pay their respects they most certainly do – the stores have not seen trading at this level for decades. The irony of it all is superlatively brutal: a nation of shoppers swearing undying allegiance to a store they abruptly abandoned years ago having been seduced by the alluring charms of a plethora of retail rivals to the crown of Woolworth. The usurpers were now ruling the retail wave supreme.

     They filled the stores still open in their droves – it is, of course, much too little and much too late. No amount of fiduciary CPR can save dear old Woolie’s now, the demise is inevitable. Spurred on by the promise of 50% reductions on everything the twenty-first century equivalents of deaf mutes wait patiently in wintry weather for their local Woolie’s store to throw open the doors. They obediently file in like so many sheep, much in the manner of those who crept past the catafalque propping up the earthly remains of the Queen Mother a few years ago. I felt no emotion whatsoever at the passing away of the latter; rather more I saw it as just another brick being removed from that archaic wall we call the Royal Family. Bring on the bulldozers I say.

     Woolworth’s, however, is different.  It had played way too large a part in my early life to simply disappear without provoking that part of my psyche which revelled in nostalgia – both sugar and saccharine in nature. I would have been a cold-hearted sort not to reflect wistfully on the past glories of the once retail giant.

     In my distant youth Woolworth stores were buildings on a par with the dimensions of the smaller cathedrals – I kid you not – real temples to Mammon they were back then. A young lad could buy just about what ever he wanted within those walls, and much more besides. I can mentally list my own purchases of many years ago – pen knives, yo-yos, Corgi cars, Meccanno bits, seeds with which to try and grow radishes with, hot salted peanuts, a tent even, geometry sets that would never be used and on and on. Most of my personal teenage impedimenta came courtesy of F.W. Woolworth &. Co. But NEVER clothing, though. Oh no, clothing bought from Woolie’s was a definite no no. To wear something that bore the brand name Winfield was tantamount to inviting a summary crucifixion at the hands of your fashion conscious peers. The jeans we all wore had to be Wrangler or Levi’s. Anything less was simply not tolerated, all other brands were dismissed as being ‘Woolie’s Washables’ and carried with them all the stigma of the Star of David in Nazi Germany. I remember well the time a mate of mine had the total misfortune to have a Winfield label spotted on his underpants as we changed for PE. His demise socially was instant – branded as he was (in all senses of the word) for the rest of his school days. Oh, the complete shame!