... and where, pray, was Summer??
That's enough of the weather-chatter. Even if it had been a blistering summer we'd have all been moaning about it anyway because, let's face it guys, us Brits just like to have a whinge about the weather no matter what it's doing.
Today, in the interests of calming Sally down about her latest job interview, we took a trip up towards Stow on the Wold to visit an organic farm shop who have called her for an interrogation session tomorrow. Now, call me prejudiced, but when somebody says 'organic farm shop' what immediately springs to mind is lots of wood, plump (but dirty) veg, the smell of soil and staff with vegetarian hair and more than a whiff of cheesecloth about their attire. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when faced with a store which more closely resembled a fusion of one of the more pretentious interior design mags with the food hall at Fortnums. The staff, too, I suspect would have slotted in very 'naicely' into one of your more exclusive couture establishments - you know, the sort where you feel you are going to be banged up for casing the joint if you so much as look in the windows. I haven't seen anything quite so sumptuous in the merchandising line since my last visit to the monastery shop near my hidey-hole in France - obviously the people owning this particular farm shop have been studying the Roman-Catholic manual of retail ostentation quite thoroughly.
Everything, including the veg, was spotless. There were chi-chi little arrangements of live baby herb plants you could buy. There were artfully painted rustic chicken-houses all ready to purchase as you walked in. From the 'bistro-cafe' the gentle chink of coffee cups overlaid the slightly-less-gentle chink of the clientele's dosh hitting the tills. Walk through and you encountered a formal garden which would not have been out of place at Wisley; which in turn led to various tastefully converted barns full of 'delaightful' objets for the house, funky country-style clothes, oh-so-cute pure cashmere woolies for the little ones etc etc etc etc. You get the picture.
Now, much as I enjoy civilised places in which to shop - let's face it ANYWHERE which doesn't include chocolate-smeared tots gobbing their well-masticated biscuits on passers by is better than Swindon - I felt more than a little uneasy in this 'farm shop'. Looking at the customers wandering around (and at their cars in the car park) I gained the distinct impression they were fairly homogenously composed of 30-something Ladies-who-Lunch (at £3.50 for a miniscule leek quiche which looked mostly composed of pastry in this case) and the well-heeled townies up grabbing some oxygen at their weekend country retreats and thus not being able to face reality in the form of Tescos in Stow. So in some senses 'Bravo, Mr Farm-Shop-Owner' - for spotting a niche and exploiting it quite so cleverly. In others, 'Kick in the nads for you Mr Farm-Shop-Owner' for so cleverly transporting an essentially urban environment and ambience into the middle of nowhere in rural Gloucestershire, merely to make a load of social misfits feel more comfortable. Because that's what really stuck in my craw - the spectacle of beautiful, natural, honest products, grown with respect for the environment around them pasted onto something which is a symbol of the nasty, grabbing wasteful society I spend most of my time trying to avoid.
Suffice it to say it will be a while before I go back... thank God for Graham and his Riverford van is all I can say.
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