Thanks to GD Art for the photo: Shore Street, Cellardyke, Fife, 1963. My granny lived up in the next street; Dove Street. I lived there too when I was very small in the 1950s. There were tiny shops like this one nearly every hundred yards all along towards Anstruther. These shops were functional but fake, really just converted houses, often using the front room with minimum facilities. Readily available Walls ice cream, Hendry's lemonade and penny sweets were a big attraction for the kids. Paper money was a rare sight. Coins were dirty brown, still with the faded head of Queen Victoria stamped into them. People remembered Victoria.
The shops were run by older women wearing headscarves and long woolen coats. War and fishing widows or eccentric old maids with some mysterious back story that was only every whispered to those locals within the circle of trust. They sold basic groceries, vegetables, milk, sweets and cigarettes. People just came in and bought what they needed when they needed it from the shop next door as if it was a bigger larder. There were no bright shiny supermarkets or discounted suppliers, that bombshell was unthinkable. They all had a strange, distinctive smell, as if something was not quite right. Some dead relative in the parlour behind the makeshift counter top or under the potato sack. Maybe it was just how those times were, things were more smelly and not quite right.
Art is everywhere.
If you're practicing guitar then it's consistency you need or so the gurus might say. I've never been so good at that. Too many other things to do, too many distractions. Maybe I'm just not so keen on music. I can't be bothered. There's a cat asleep on my lap so I'm stuck. Repetition and exercise kills creativity. Old dogs, new tricks. Been tinkering on the margins too long. YouTube experts that kill the joy. Where am I even going with this? Is there a good film on somewhere?
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