During the years we lived in Bristol the streets were gradually filled with road-markings, traffic-calming measures and pedestrian crossings. Gradually the message became clear: pedestrians had rights that should be respected, revered even.
What a contrast when we arrived in Crediton! Here, many streets have no pavements at all; others have a pavement down one side only, and even that pavement is liable to sudden termination just at the moment when a pedestrian's life is at its most exciting - road junctions, sharp bends, and so on.
Yes, I think the local authorities are to be congratulated: there are so few obstacles to impede the natural progress of motor vehicles, and drivers' freedom to command the roads and intimidate pedestrians remains virtually unfettered.
I love to cruise down the high street and watch pedestrians leaping desperately across the last eight feet to safety as I bear down on them, perhaps just giving them a quick splash from the puddles that form gratifyingly on rainy days. And when I'm in the mood, I can't tell you what a kick I get out of pausing to wave a cowering old lady across my path in a most gracious and condescending manner.
Yes, it strikes me that the councillors and officials must be a brave lot. How easy and cowardly it would have been to acknowledge that the high street is well-used by shoppers who often need to get from one side to the other; how easy it would then have been to decide to place a couple of pedestrian crossings at strategic points - say outside the Record Shop and Adams - and to make the high street simple and safe for pedestrians and sheer frustration for drivers. That's what they have done in just about every other town or city I have ever been to. But no, our local councillors resisted those easy options, and even provided a bit of entertainment for drivers by narrowing the road at a couple of points to tempt pedestrians into the paths of cars. I really can't say how impressed I've been.
Incidentally, someone told me that my irony would be lost on Crediton.
Monday, 16 April 2007
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
Psst!.......Are you in favour of Tesco?
On Good Friday morning I woke with a distinct hankering for hot cross buns. "Well we haven't got any," announced the other half of the bed.
"In that case, I'll go down to Tesco Express and see if they've had a little more foresight than we have," I replied.
"Huh! There's no way they'll have any left." Did I detect a tone of triumph?
Now, I'm not sure what I think about Tesco, but one thing I do like about them is that they really do try to give people what they want. In fact they seem to know what you want before even you know. Many a time I have wandered round one of their stores and been struck by a brand-new desire: tinned tomatoes that were organically grown in Andalusia; a kitchen towel that is not only moderately absorbent but is also printed with the colours of the England football team; mature cheddar cheese bejewelled with mint choc chips, and so on. The amazing thing is that very often, shortly after being struck with one of these strange desires, I come across its satisfaction prominently displayed on an aisle end.
So, anyway, I threw on what oddments of clothing the floor-drobe offered and skipped down to Tesco Express in search of hot cross buns. They had a whole, specially constructed cardboard rack of them in two varieties. It was then I noticed something very strange: the staff were dressed even more outlandishly than I was; for some reason Tesco had decided that Good Friday was Blues Brothers day and had clad its staff accordingly.
I took my precious hot cross buns to the counter where the checkout lady was only in half-hearted costume: black tie and white shirt under a Tesco uniform top.
"Blues Brothers day, eh?" I hailed her cheerfully. She merely winced, definitely not in the spirit of Belushi and Ackroyd. "And the connection with Easter?" I probed. She just raised her eyes to heaven, bleeped my buns and said nothing. I ran through the possible connections between Easter and The Blues Brothers: the beginning of Spring, the crucifixion of Christ, general exuberance? Nothing worked, and I have never worked out this mystery.
Of course, mentioning Tesco in Crediton is always risky. A number of people I have met have come round to the subject eventually and they are very non-commital until they know my views. I have come to the conclusion that if you oppose Tesco you are probably arty, nostalgic or old; everyone else is in favour. All I know is that when Tesco opened a huge store in our neighbourhood in Bristol in the late eighties about half of the local shops shut over the next three years. The ones that stayed open were - in the main - the ones that were any good. After a few years new local shops started opening, but they were selling different things: hair-cuts and meals mainly.
I find it hard to get passionate about the issue. I'm an Aldi and Lidl man myself. Build a couple of those and I'd be more than happy.
"In that case, I'll go down to Tesco Express and see if they've had a little more foresight than we have," I replied.
"Huh! There's no way they'll have any left." Did I detect a tone of triumph?
Now, I'm not sure what I think about Tesco, but one thing I do like about them is that they really do try to give people what they want. In fact they seem to know what you want before even you know. Many a time I have wandered round one of their stores and been struck by a brand-new desire: tinned tomatoes that were organically grown in Andalusia; a kitchen towel that is not only moderately absorbent but is also printed with the colours of the England football team; mature cheddar cheese bejewelled with mint choc chips, and so on. The amazing thing is that very often, shortly after being struck with one of these strange desires, I come across its satisfaction prominently displayed on an aisle end.
So, anyway, I threw on what oddments of clothing the floor-drobe offered and skipped down to Tesco Express in search of hot cross buns. They had a whole, specially constructed cardboard rack of them in two varieties. It was then I noticed something very strange: the staff were dressed even more outlandishly than I was; for some reason Tesco had decided that Good Friday was Blues Brothers day and had clad its staff accordingly.
I took my precious hot cross buns to the counter where the checkout lady was only in half-hearted costume: black tie and white shirt under a Tesco uniform top.
"Blues Brothers day, eh?" I hailed her cheerfully. She merely winced, definitely not in the spirit of Belushi and Ackroyd. "And the connection with Easter?" I probed. She just raised her eyes to heaven, bleeped my buns and said nothing. I ran through the possible connections between Easter and The Blues Brothers: the beginning of Spring, the crucifixion of Christ, general exuberance? Nothing worked, and I have never worked out this mystery.
Of course, mentioning Tesco in Crediton is always risky. A number of people I have met have come round to the subject eventually and they are very non-commital until they know my views. I have come to the conclusion that if you oppose Tesco you are probably arty, nostalgic or old; everyone else is in favour. All I know is that when Tesco opened a huge store in our neighbourhood in Bristol in the late eighties about half of the local shops shut over the next three years. The ones that stayed open were - in the main - the ones that were any good. After a few years new local shops started opening, but they were selling different things: hair-cuts and meals mainly.
I find it hard to get passionate about the issue. I'm an Aldi and Lidl man myself. Build a couple of those and I'd be more than happy.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Solicitors, vets and butchers - but not necessarily in that order
Why are there so many solicitors in Crediton? I read that the crime rate is low, so what are they doing? Perhaps the divorce rate is lucratively high. Perhaps there are a lot of disputes between neighbours.
I also wonder at the number of vets. I suppose I might expect a lot of vets with agriculture all around the town; perhaps there are lots of cows and sheep to mend. But I saw remarkably few of those animals in the waiting room at West Ridge Veterinary Practice when I arrived with my daughter, clutching the family hamster.
Back in Bristol you just turned up in visiting hours, joined the queue and endured pet Beirut for the next hour or so: fat labradors snapping at hissing, caged fur-balls; grumpy rabbits thumping the walls of their boxes; pythons coiled around tattoed owners. Here in Crediton you make an appointment. "Peter to see the vet at 5:45," I announced as we strolled into the practice.
"Ah yes," said the receptionist uncertainly. "Peter who?"
"He hasn't got a surname," I replied. "He's a hamster."
Within three minutes we were already in the surgery with Peter being examined carefully by the new vet who was clearly very nervous around hamsters.
"How much will this cost?" I inquired.
"About £10."
"And a new hamster.......?"
Apparently - according to my daughter - this was not a line of thinking that was either acceptable or moral. Apparently I was confusing my thinking about damaged hamsters with my thinking about damaged cars.
Actually I am very fond of animals, and that is why I make regular visits to the two butchers in the High St. Incidentally, I am sure that they are, in fact, the same shop. I have often noticed staff from one scurrying along the road and disappearing into the other.
Anyway, I was waiting to be served the other day when my eye was drawn to the posters that render various meat-yielding animals in diagramatic form with their sections marked and labelled, e.g. topside, ribs, flank. Now that is callous. How would we feel if we visited the surgeon and he had similar charts of the human body marked up with his favourite cut lines?
I also wonder at the number of vets. I suppose I might expect a lot of vets with agriculture all around the town; perhaps there are lots of cows and sheep to mend. But I saw remarkably few of those animals in the waiting room at West Ridge Veterinary Practice when I arrived with my daughter, clutching the family hamster.
Back in Bristol you just turned up in visiting hours, joined the queue and endured pet Beirut for the next hour or so: fat labradors snapping at hissing, caged fur-balls; grumpy rabbits thumping the walls of their boxes; pythons coiled around tattoed owners. Here in Crediton you make an appointment. "Peter to see the vet at 5:45," I announced as we strolled into the practice.
"Ah yes," said the receptionist uncertainly. "Peter who?"
"He hasn't got a surname," I replied. "He's a hamster."
Within three minutes we were already in the surgery with Peter being examined carefully by the new vet who was clearly very nervous around hamsters.
"How much will this cost?" I inquired.
"About £10."
"And a new hamster.......?"
Apparently - according to my daughter - this was not a line of thinking that was either acceptable or moral. Apparently I was confusing my thinking about damaged hamsters with my thinking about damaged cars.
Actually I am very fond of animals, and that is why I make regular visits to the two butchers in the High St. Incidentally, I am sure that they are, in fact, the same shop. I have often noticed staff from one scurrying along the road and disappearing into the other.
Anyway, I was waiting to be served the other day when my eye was drawn to the posters that render various meat-yielding animals in diagramatic form with their sections marked and labelled, e.g. topside, ribs, flank. Now that is callous. How would we feel if we visited the surgeon and he had similar charts of the human body marked up with his favourite cut lines?
"I'll cut along this dotted line down your flank. And here around your loin." How would you feel? I know I'd feel as nervous as a vet with a homicidal hamster. By the way, it turned out the family hamster was a girl.
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