Today my shopping trip into Blairgowrie involved visiting two old friends, making two new friends and miserably failing in my efforts to make a third.
First stop was the wool shop, to say hello to Fiona. A few ladies were being served so I strolled around, with the air of someone who might actually belong in a wool shop, and spied – next to the knitting sensation of 2010, CanCan wool – Loopy wool, which seems to be a sort of stringy wool with lots of holes.
“I heard you were back!” she greeted me. “And I understand you’ve been very busy with your knitting.”
I quailed slightly, knowing she would be expecting perfect results from the Norwegian sock wool that had, months earlier, been sent from her store to Sydney, the colours carefully chosen by herself and Jeanette.
“It was a disaster!” Deciding honesty to be the best policy, I told her about the sleeves that came out with the wingspan of a bat.
“Och aye,” she said. “It never works to use the wrong wool.” A piece of advice that had not been forthcoming at the time when together we had pored over the pattern and decided upon the sock wool. I suppose I should have been more on the alert – after all, could I truly expect sock wool to be suitable for a 1940s look-alike sweater?
To redeem myself – after all, this is a shop I come to often and can’t afford to be treated with pity – I reassured her that the fair isle jumper I had embarked on during my last trip had come out very well.
“I made one for my son, too, in the same wool,” I told her.
“Oh, that’s nice. How old is the little boy?”
“Twenty-four,” I admitted. “But we don’t go out together in them.”
Thinking that far from redeeming myself, I’m beginning to sound a bit weird, I change the subject.
“Is that a loopy wool scarf you’re wearing?” I asked, eyeing up the knitted strings around her neck.
“Aye,” she said. “It’s not really catching on.” I could have told her it didn’t expect it to be the fashion success of the season, but once winter boredom sets in, who knows what the ladies of Perthshire will set their needles to?
Next stop is Frivols, to visit Ann, who sold me the mink coat I purchased to keep me warm during the winter of 2009, and which last year I traded in for a full-length sheepskin coat.
“I heard you were back!” she said. I am no longer surprised that these are the first words I hear from most people. I think I would be more surprised, in fact, if they looked surprised to see me – or indeed, offended, at not knowing I am back.
“I’m so glad you sold my mink,” I said.
“Oh, it was so lucky. I had it hanging in the stockroom at the end of winter and I asked Jeanette to take it for you, but she was heading off to Edinburgh and said she’d collect it on her way back.
“It was just as well, because the very next day a lady came in and said ‘you used to have some lovely fur coats, do you have any left?’
“’They’ve all sold because it’s been such a chilly winter,’ I told her, ‘except for one which I have out the back.’
“Well, she tried it on, it fitted perfectly and she fell in love with it and said ‘I must have it!’”
So I now have ninety pounds in my purse, Ann’s customer has a mink coat she is thrilled with and I still have my sheepskin should the weather turn foul during my stay – quite likely, as the forecasters are already predicting snow in October.
In Tescos, I stand contemplating the bottles of sherry. There is a crib sheet explaining four different styles of sherry and what they go well with, whether to serve chilled or over ice, with cheese or as an aperitif. I expected there to be three choices: ‘sweet’ ‘medium’ or ‘dry’ but like everything else, sherry is obviously undergoing a re-fashioning to make it trendy and appealing.
I stop an old lady in the aisle.
“Do you drink sherry?” I ask her.
She looks somewhat startled.
“No, no I don’t.”
“I’m buying it for my mother,” I explain. “I think I want medium, but there’s nothing here called medium.”
She taps a bottle of Harvey Bristol Cream.
“I’ve heard of that one,” she says. “But you’d be best asking an older person.”
There’s not too many older old ladies about, and my new friend follows me down the sherry aisle, pointing out other sherries she recognises before suggesting I ask one of the Tesco helpers. As they all look about 16 and unlikely sherry connoisseurs, I decide to take pot luck and I plump for Amontillado.
As I leave Tescos, I detour for petrol. Parked alongside the pump, I take out the petrol nozzle and click on the handle.
Nothing happens.
I look at the pump and see various instructions for paying by credit card, but I want to dip into my ninety pounds and pay cash at the till.
Finally, I approach a very large gentleman who has just filled his car (and who in truth looks as if he should be riding a large Harley Davidson) and put on my pathetic ‘I’m just a silly woman’ face, and ask him how to get the pump started.
He gives me one of those looks, accompanied by an ‘I don’t believe it, what a silly woman’ sigh, and leans over and presses a button which says ‘Pay in Shop’.
I simper and smile prettily.
Homewards and I remember what Gordon had told me.
“There’s a new book shop at Bridge of Cally,” he said, enthusiastically.
“Really?” I felt quite excited at the prospect.
“Aye, they only sell fishing books.” Ah, now I understand his keen interest. Gordon is rather partial to slinging his hook overboard and likes nothing better than a day’s fishing.
Conversely, my only interest in fish is eating them. But I am somewhat intrigued by the notion that a shop can open – and survive – on a diet of fishing books. So I decide to take a look at River Thoughtful.
The owner, sitting in his doorway, nods curtly at me. The shop is quite large with rows of bookshelves filled with ‘antiquarian, rare and collectable’ books. I browsed the contents and came across various wellknown bestsellers such as, ‘Pike – In Pursuit of Esox Lucius’, ‘A Jerk on One End’ and ‘Practical Fly-Tying’.
I try to engage the owner in conversation:
“I’m not a fisher, I just wanted to take a look”
“What an amazing collection!”
“Has the shop been open long?”
He obviously sees me for what I am – a tyre kicker, and gives a slight grunt of acknowledgement but is not to be drawn into a chat.
Evidently, whether by the river or not, he prefers to remain Thoughtful, rather than engaged in Making Friends.
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