Woolies RIP

I took a trip to the Camberwell branch of Woolies today... a moribund, joyless experience if ever there was one – like a wet weekend in an off-season British coastal resort, except without the fun. There was however a faint air of the feeding frenzy, lent to proceedings by the crowds of eager bargain hunters, come to dine at the carcass of the mortally wounded high street giant like crows in the aftermath of some bleak mercantile war. All it needed were the mournful strains of 'The Last Post' being played by a sole, bloodied bugler to make the scene of mournful defeat utterly complete.

By then the flesh had been stripped down to the bones of the fixtures and fittings, with pretty much only the Pic n Mix left (and a few Girls Aloud CDs knocking about at half price). So little more to tempt me than usual, then. A spot of light entertainment was provided by a loud, possibly drunk, Scottish woman, screeching at the tills, but she was escorted out after a while by a security guard.

Woolworths, I wish I could say I'll miss you, but the truth is, I hardly noticed you when you were there. As they say in Birmingham, "Tararabit".