Not Such Super Supermarkets

As the news reports that the supermarkets have suffered poor sales returns over the past few weeks, these bulletins coincide with the fact that today is the anniversary of the date when the very first supermarket in this country opened for business. The Co-Op at Manor Park welcomed the first shoppers on 12th January 1948, but at that time who would have believed that within sixty four years this country would be awash with these retail giants? Supermarkets have morphed into gargantuan caverns where the shoppers drift like drones through the aisles. With tactics employed to suffocate small business and trample on independent traders, these operations are ruthless.

The reports indicate a forecast that sales will prove weak this year as shoppers continue to buy fewer groceries. Sainsbury’s reported that 2011 was the first year that they had experienced volume decline and Tesco is grumbling about their share price dwindling. The costs of goods have risen so people are adjusting accordingly.

The past few decades have seen people becoming accustomed to buying what they want on credit, shopping has evolved into a leisure activity and a throw away attitude has become the norm. But now, as spending behavioural patterns change these supermarkets are feeling the pinch and I for one feel no sympathy for them.

As a child I watched as my parents tried to build up a small business in the town where we lived. Sundays were spent sourcing stock and every evening I watched as my mother stayed up late to produce flower arrangements to fulfil orders while my day poured over the accounts. All the while trading became increasingly difficult as the council pedestrianised the road in front of the shop, rents soared and Sunday trading started which meant my parents'shop had to stay open too. Whilst this was happening, the supermarkets were growing in number and expanding their ranges to become one stop shops selling gifts, flowers and many other items that my parents stocked. It became impossible to compete and so my parent’s shop died.

So whether you are a local or visiting London for a holiday I implore you to stay away from the supermarkets and visit the wealth of independent shops, markets and unique outlets that London hosts. You will believe you have stepped back in time, if you venture to Deptford market, where the high street is home to at least four fishmongers and half a dozen butchers. Experience the Whitechapel market where fruit and vegetables galore are offered for a single pound for a bowl of fresh produce. Head to Brick lane to the 24 hour Bagel shop for a treat so tasty and far removed from anything a supermarket would dare to label with the same name. Journey along the Edgware road for a sea of fine fabrics or wind your way through Soho, to Berwick street and dive into the shops that sell records or vintage clothing.

These are the truly super shops and super street markets that provide super service and super value. They are here on your doorstep with their doors open for business. We may be buying less but we can also buy better.

Birds and Bird Brains

I would certainly not describe myself as a tree hugger, but having recently moved to a house with a garden, I find that I am now far more aware of nature. Six months ago I moved to Rotherhithe and am now awoken each morning by a hungry robin singing his heart out, as opposed to the grumbling busses trundling through my old stomping ground in Bayswater.

The focal point of my green rectangle of grass is a bird table, which I load up daily with seeds, cereal and mealworms that are whisked away by my winged neighbours. When I moved to SE16, I had assumed that it would be time to become a car owner for weekend excursions and trips to the supermarket. However, the need for a gas-guzzler has not materialised. A bicycle equipped with a basket and robust panniers more than suffice in transporting both a considerable load and myself. The majority of my new neighbourhood own vehicles and one resident appears to be quite the enthusiast with three cars. I simply do not see the attraction. As said neighbour gazes out of his window, lovingly cooing over his mid life crisis escape route on four wheels, I much prefer spotting the black birds skulking in the shadows and watching the cormorants dry their wings on the nearby pier, whilst the busy blue tits bombard the bird table.

Is the Tower of London worth a visit?

The Tower of London is one of the most popular attractions in London.  This video gives a taste of what is inside the Tower to help you decide if it worth a visit.

London Review -- Changing Of The Guard

London for Lilliputions

There is a London that exists on a micro scale. It is a city so small that it sits on top of a table, inhabiting a single room. You can travel from Paddington to the Olympic site in approximately six long strides without so much as a swipe of your Oyster Card. This mini-land is accessible to all and can be found on Store Street, WC1E 7BT.

I decided a visit to the Building Centre was in order to check out the area that surrounds the part of town that I am thinking of moving to. After eleven years in Bayswater, it is time to move not only south of the river but also east to the corner of London named, Bermondsey. I can not deny that it will be a struggle to tear myself away from W2 but the cost per square foot in SE16 is very appealing, plus the fact that it is right on the river. Of course I have also walked around Bermondsey, done my homework and been there at different times of the day, so the Store Street visit was really for another perspective, namely birdseye. It is enjoyable to see the lay of the land, spot the building where you live and witness the recent changes to the city skyline with the new buildings mapped out in white. Running the length of the map is also the route of Crossrail. We've all seen and tripped over the many holes that are currently springing up all over town and here you can understand the path that these new trains will take. It is an exciting spread. Move over Gulliver this lilliput land is for every Londoner.

Monday Scramble

Like any relationship, my feelings towards London can be tested.  The Monday morning sinking feeling, dipped to another level today with the prospect of crossing town in the midst of another tube strike.  Without doubt, the only means of transport worth considering on a day like this is a bicycle and yet I was weighed down with an assortment of objects to take to my parents house in Kent.  Doomed to catch the number 36 bus, I trudged towards the stand.  Row upon row of double-deckers passed by, each one misty with a thin veil of respiration, concealing dozens of unhappy passengers wedged inside.  At least those people had secured a coveted place on board.  I was left stranded at the stop for 55 minutes simply because the 36 proved can be such an illusive beast.  Finally, a bus arrived and I was on my way, sat beside a man whose heavy snoring lead me to believe he had been onboard a very long time.  My choice of distraction for the journey was Scrabble on my iPhone.  The 59p worth of entertainment proved to be money well spent as the computer and I silently battled with our consonants and vowels on this never ending ride.  Like all nightmares the journey finally finished and I alighted at Victoria station.  Hot, uncomfortable and running late, I entered the ticket hall and just as the curses aimed at traffic, congestion, and crowds began to form on my lips, I heard music.  A warm, rousing sound filled the enclosure and drew me in.  Standing together, blowing, their brass instruments was a band of musicians.  In the foreground, armed with plastic containers stood a group collecting for the Multiple Sclerosis Society.  All around them was chaos as passengers steamed towards the ticket machines, shops and coffee stands but the band played on.  With their music came light, joy and my temper subsided with the tempo.  I dropped a few coins into their bucket and went on my way with their tune humming in my head.  This day was clearly about to get better.

Trying a Trolley and Taking the Train

My heart belongs to London but every so often I will travel beyond its six hundred and forty square miles to explore further afield.  Today was one of those days with a jolly jaunt to the land of academia.  Five layers of clothing were required to defend myself on the chilly cycle ride to the train station.  For once, I was greeted by a healthy team of Boris Bikes at the stalls near my flat.  I hate to imagine what time the rack will empty tomorrow morning as the dreaded tube strike, strikes again.  A second advantage of travelling by bike on a Sunday morning in near freezing temperatures is that every sane person is snuggled up in bed with the newspaper and as such the roads are clear.  Freewheeling through Marylebone, Fitzrovia and Euston, the feeling in my lips quickly disappeared as the rosy colour in my face increased with fervour.  The motivation spurring my feet to fight the wind force was knowing that the next mode of transport would be shielded from the cold and reassuringly swift.  Entering the ticket hall, crowds in all directions gazed hopefully at the many signs displaying train times.  There is one platform at King's Cross Station that does not show up on the bank of screens.  It is of course platform 9 and 3/4 which Harry Potter and his chums use to journey to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Fortunately, the good people at the train company have fixed a marker on the wall to indicate the whereabouts of this mysterious departure point.  Following numerous attempts by would be wizards to ram themselves against innocent walls in order to join Harry and capture the action on camera, the authorities have conveniently positioned a luggage trolley.  This prevents injury and enhances any photographic imagery.  Magic!  I joined the line up for my turn, along with puzzled children and their eager mothers and fathers.  Some parents had clearly brought their offspring along for pretence, attempting to fool strangers and themselves that the visit was for their youngsters' benefit, rather than their own.  One set of siblings aged around three and four years old were clearly confused.  The look on their faces said, "Harry who?" as they dutifully held the handle of the trolley and smiled for the family album.  This was not quite up to the standards of a visit to Santa.  My turn came and I clutched, pushed and prayed but my efforts were fruitless as the wheels would not budge.  The trolley transport had failed.  Despite the initial disappointment, I was able to journey beyond the confines of King's Cross and reach the land of learning in a mere 48 minutes.  Moments away located on platform 8, was a train destined to Cambridge.  Undoubtably, the town makes for a splendid excursion.  Stunning stone work, a bridge so beautiful it inspires one to sigh and tasty tea houses galore, mean the train ride out of London is worth while.  Hogwarts can wait for another day.