127 Hours of shopping

I have Claire Bicknell to thank for this latest analysis of the way retailers hook different generations (for which read ‘grumpy old man’s rant against the dying of the light’)

There we were, sitting have a nice coffee in Carluccio’s and talking over Smith Cooper’s plans for world domination (well, a move into the Lace Market anyway) when she reminded me of a Tweet I made after a demoralising experience in Primark. That’s all it took for me to go off on one.

I felt cornered in Primark because I literally couldn’t see the wood for the trees. While my daughters sifted through what seemed to me like a forest of tat-inspired jewellery, I stood there, waffled on about why cheap jewellery is still poor value when it doesn’t last five minutes, and then realised I was completely disorientated. I wanted to dive for the exit, but couldn’t see a way out of the jewellery section.

It reminded me of that scene in the late, lamented Father Ted, where a bunch of Roman Catholic priests get lost in the lingerie section in an Irish department store. Only it wasn’t that furtively interesting.

I did escape eventually, but it was further evidence that blokes of my age (that’s ahem-and-a-bit, since you’re asking), become a tragic cross between a wallet and a spare part when they go shopping with the family.

Now, a part of that is because my idea of ‘shopping’ involves coffee and a book in Waterstones and, er, that’s it. If I’m really feeling sociable I might take in the home technology (read ‘boys’ toys’) department in John Lewis or the wines section pretty much anywhere. But it’s also because I can’t believe the routine lack of anything resembling great service which lies underneath these margins.

Fashion is where I stand and issue a series of utterly futile observations about these retail margins while my daughters smile, nod and just get on with assembling a stylish combo that would never occur to a sartorial car-crash like me.

But it is MY wallet which these combos depend on. This is why I would rather stand in for that bloke in 127 Hours than get dragged into the likes of Jack Wills. Now, any sane person would imagine that if a girl wants a gilet you can get one for a few quid in Decathlon. It’ll have the street cred of horsey overtones, so what’s the problem? The problem is that it hasn’t got Jack Wills plastered all over it, and this massive enhancement to its technical capabilities means that instead of a couple of tenners you can hand over 98 of your English pounds for the privilege of advertising someone else’s brand.

The thing is, as insane as it sounds it is also inevitable.

On some days of the week I drop my eldest daughter off at school and you have only to look at the bags and accessories she and her mates attack the campus with to know that Brand Is Everything. Jack Wills is still well up there, but the rising stars are the likes of Hollister and (if you can get your hands on it) Abercrombie and Fitch. You might occasionally see some Boden or Joules, but that’s clearly stuff your mum bought for you. The horror of it!
Fashion accessories are not just things you wear, either. They are things you text from and listen to. So you’ve got an iPhone? Well, OK, but is it an iPhone 4? The only vaguely credible alternative is a Blackberry. That’s right – a Blackberry. In school. They should read John Lyle’s life without an iPhone.
I probably need to go and have another coffee. Only problem is that if it’s the weekend I’ll probably bump into my daughter’s generation sipping some over-priced smoothie.
So I am going back into my darkened room instead.

Walk up and smell the coffee

So we’ve got a Jamie’s Italian. There’s even a Carluccio’s And that’s on top of some heavyweight restaurant chains and fine dining establishments like Hart’s and World Service.

I’ll leave the reviews of Jamie’s and Carluccio’s to the acknowledged gourmands of the Nottingham blogosphere (that’s you, messrs Garratt and Lyle).

Instead, my own personal Christmas has come in the shape of a medio cappuccino from Costa Coffee on Lister Gate. It is the first sign that the coffee shop desert that extends all the way from Wheeler Gate down to the railway station has finally found its own oasis.

I’ve never quite understood how it was that an industry notorious for what some critics have described as carpet bombing (opening so many establishments that your rivals go out of business) has managed to ignore an entire quarter of the city centre.

Starbucks used to be on Lister Gate, but they bailed out and headed to a bigger (and less convivial) unit on the edge of the Market Square. It was, quite obviously, a numbers-driven calculation which ignored the absence of any rival outlet near Broadmarsh. So more fool them.

Anyway, enough of the silliness of a numbers-only strategy which ignores reality on the ground. Costa’s announcement that it was moving into a unit on the run down to Broadmarsh was greeted with unalloyed pleasure in the Post newsroom. So much so, that there was near despair when a fire broke out while they were ripping out the old tenant’s fittings.

But it’s open now and it’s a whopper. Two floors, 170 seats, and enough room to have a discreet meeting upstairs. The staff are finding their feet in a location which was bound to get hellishly busy at lunchtime, but there’s no need to worry for the thousands of workers around our base at Castle Wharf who are now within walking distance of a warm brew.

Personally, I don’t think the war’s over. I’ve yet to understand why my manor, a stretch where thousands of workers from the Revenue, Gala Coral, Castle Wharf and the courts rub shoulders with an immense bus and rail footfall, doesn’t deserve its own coffee shop.

But Costa is at least a start. For now, I can walk up and smell the coffee.