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“Oh, Doris, how can we go on like this?”
What Veronica meant was, “Oh Doris, how can a business survive a perfect storm of punitive rent, low footfall and discounted sales?”
Veronica and Peter opened “Say Cheese”, an artisan cheese shop, on the High Street at the end of last year. Peter had been running the Paco Rabanne franchise in Debenhams in Exeter when a health scare made him to reappraise his life. He and Veronica decided to follow their dream – appropriate given we’re talking about cheese here – and open their little shop in Appleton Marsh.
Well, Veronica and I hit it off straight away and over the months she has become a frequent visitor to DBLW, even purchasing two hard-to-shift tabards for her and Peter to wear in the shop. It was to only be expected that Veronica should come to look upon me as a mentor and life-coach so it came as no surprise when, this morning, she turned to me for advice.
“V,” I said. “To you and Peter I expect high fashion and curdled dairy products seem worlds apart but they’re not so different. The first rule of retail always applies – give the customers what they want.”
She nodded, taking it all in.
I switched into coaching mode. This is where the coach (me) knows that the answers lie within the coachee (V) and sets about skilfully teasing these out with insightful questioning.
“When people come into a cheese shop, V, what do you think they want to buy?”
“Cheese?” she suggested. It was a good start.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Well done. And what is Britain’s most popular cheese?”
“Cheddar?”
“Cheese brand?”
She thought about this, searching deep inside herself for the answer.
“Cathedral City?”
“Correct. And V, what do you think is Britain’s second most popular cheese?”
“Pilgrim’s Choice?” she ventured.
“That’s right,” I said softly, still in coaching mode.
“And V, now can you tell me what is this country’s third most popular cheese?”
She had to think long and hard about this.
“Dairylea Triangles?” she said, eventually.
“Well done V,” I encouraged her.
“Now, which of these three cheeses do you stock?”
She looked at me with dilated pupils and I knew, V had just found the answer within.
I went around to Flo’s house last night to watch a recording of old episode of Inspector Morse before she taped over it. For you Morse fans out there it was the one with a double murder at a brewery; if you remember how it ended let me know – it was a 90 minute tape and a two hour episode.
Kirsty was there and, I think to take the heat off her mother as the Morse post mortem and recriminations began, she started talking about children’s clothing.
“There’s a real gap in the market, Doris,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, because she’d said this completely out of the blue.
“Children’s clothing. There’s nowhere really in Appleton Marsh that caters for children.”
“There’s Dancing in the Street,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but that’s dance wear,” she said. “I meant, there’s nowhere to go for normal clothing. You have to travel into Bovey or Tiverton and by the time you’ve got in your car you might as well go to Exeter.”
She was right. Appleton Marsh is not child-friendly. There are families with kids of course but the age demographic is skewed to the more mature.
“There used to be a children’s clothing shop, where C’est Cheese is, next to Tea Hees,” she reminded me.
“It was owned by a friend of Beryl’s; it was only open six months. She moved away.”
“You’re missing a trick, Doris,” said Kirsty. “Section a bit of your shop off for a few children’s key essentials and I bet you’d do well.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving it a try,” chirped up Flo.
“Children’s clothing is not our core competency,” I told them both. “You have to stick to what you’re good at or, in our case, stick to what we’re very good at.”
“Just stock one or two items is all I’m saying Doris,” said Kirsty. “See how it goes. You never know, a customer comes in to buy some girl’s stockings, sees what else you have in the shop, one thing leads to another and…”
I cut her short by laughing over her.
“Kirsty, you’re just showing your inexperience,” I said. Leave fashion retail to the experts,” I said. “The day I decide to stock a Mini-Brazil range I promise, I will consult you,” I said.
“I’ve got an old episode of Two’s Company here,” said Flo, kneeling up from the video cabinet.
“Elaine Stritch and Donald Sinden!” I said. “I used to love that.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” admitted Kirsty.
“Two’s Company was hilarious,” I told her. “It was like Fawlty Towers but much, much funnier.”
So that’s what we did. The three of us settled down to a Two’s Company-thon and the night was very enjoyable. I’ve never seen Kirsty laugh so much.
There’s a saying in Appleton Marsh: if you run over something in your car, it’s either a cat or a Chaff. The history of the Chaffs in Appleton Marsh can be traced back to William the Conqueror and the Domesday Book, as Margaret insists on reminding the whole world, all the time. And if you don’t believe me, take a wander down Hall Rise. See if you can spot the only house with a heraldic shield above the door. Don’t ask me what the family motto, “Libretto et Cantata”, means. I wouldn’t mind but Margaret married into the name.
Anyway, I digress. Having explained the stranglehold that the Chaff dynasty has on Appleton Marsh, it probably won’t surprise you to hear that my bookkeeper is none other than Wynona Chaff, Margaret’s niece. Wynona isn’t a qualified accountant but she knows what she’s doing and she has got letters after her name (S.R.H.). She’s done my accounts ever since Lionel Chaff, her granddad, fell head over heels for a retired podiatrist from out of the county and followed her like a lovesick puppy, leaving us high and dry without a bye or leave.
It seems I can’t go two sentences without digressing, or rambling to use senior citizen parlance.
This morning Wynona popped by to begin preparing the DBLW annual accounts. I’d already decided that the remainder of the lincoln green tabards should be written off to bad goods which would mean a hit to the profit & loss account. The question in my mind was whether it needed to be treated as an operational charge, hitting my operating profit, or whether it could be treated as an exceptional cost and go ‘below the line.’ I was pondering this when Wynona dropped the bombshell.
“Doris, that new table in the staff room.”
“What about it?” I said.
“You’re not going to be able to depreciate it over ten years.”
“But it’s fixtures and fittings. I’ve always depreciated fixtures and fittings over ten years. That’s the DBLW accounting standard.”
“I’m sorry Doris. You can only depreciate assets over their useful life.”
“But a table has a useful life of more than ten years. The last one lasted forty years, until Flo fell onto it.”
“The point is, Doris, and how can I put this…?”
I saw where this going and saved her the bother.
“That I might not be around in ten years time,” I said dismissively. “Is that what you mean?”
She looked bashful.
“Well no one lasts forever, Doris.”
“Well how long do think I’m going to last?” I snapped. “What should the new DBLW depreciation policy be? Five years? Three years? Three months? Twelve hours?!”
“Don’t be like that,” she said.
“I have a business to run,” I said. “And that business won’t withstand a hit to the profit and loss account from expensing a table, not after the write down of the tabards.”
“I recommend a two year amortisation plan,” ventured Wynona.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snorted. “I didn’t realise that I looked so near to death’s door.”
“You’re seventy eight,” she said, bold as brass.
“Thank you, I know how old I am. I don’t need to be reminded.”
While all this was going on, Flo wisely kept her head down.
“All I’m saying is, it’s not inconceivable that you’ll retire.”
“And it’s not inconceivable that I’ll get myself a new bookkeeper,” I snapped.
“Okay,” she raised her hands in submission. “Three years. Any more and I’ll be crossing the corporate governance Rubicon. Don’t ask me to go there Doris.”
I could tell she meant it.
“Have you been into B&Q in Exeter lately?” I asked her. “Half the staff there are over eighty.”
She was unmoved.
“Three years then,” I agreed reluctantly. “But we’re going to have to re-consider what we do with those tabards.”
Tomorrow you’ll find me and Flo at the Matford car boot sale. Kirsty is dropping us off there while she goes into Exeter to return a faulty colander to Lakeland.
Flo’s better on her legs and while she disappears off, on a mission for not even she knows what for, I shall peruse the stalls nearest to the entrance. Of course this means I am left with the most picked over of table tops but that’s fine. There’s not much I need now in this life. Although, I must admit I still use the biscuit barrel with the fleur de lys motif that Flo bought last year at the Newton Abbot car boot sale (she wanted it for the moisture absorbing shaker which she took out to replace the one in her own barrel), to store my bombay mix. Anyhow, I shall take my purse, just in case.
I hope Kirsty cleans the Picasso out before we go. The last time I was in it, my coat picked up so many dog hairs I looked like a yeti. And it smells, of dog. Her Magic Tree Berry air freshener would need to be the size of a tablecloth to be able to cope. When she’s not looking I might give it a squirt of slow release formula Air Wick Aqua Mist, if I can locate the upholstery underneath the dog hairs and Sebastian’s shag pile fibres, that is.
Last year I spotted Radio Devon superstar Judi “Devon Maid” Spires at Newton Abbot. She was haggling over a jigsaw. I don’t think she saw me; well if she had it would have made not a blind bit of difference since we’ve never been introduced. One of the advantages of hosting the midweek morning show must be that you get the weekends off to indulge your passions. The staff at DBLW love Judi and you’ll often find the whole team, crammed into the staff room listening to her show.
I feel it’s a bit warmer today. Spring can’t be far away which means Flo and I have seen off another winter together. Sometimes I wonder if we’d lived farther north, whether we’d still be here? The mild climate in this part of the world is conducive to longevity, that’s what Lillian Greenhalgh used to say. Ironically, in this land of the extended flowering season, it was a hanging basket that did for her.
Last night I had another one of my strange dreams and I’m starting to wonder if they’re not induced by my favourite malted milk drink, Horlicks.
Now I’ve never met Douglas Alexander, Shadow Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, but last night he collected me in his 2.0L Mondeo Zetec (in Moondust silver) and whisked me away to The Jack in the Green restaurant at Rockbeare, near Exeter.
I had a lovely braised shoulder of West Country veal with pumpkin risotto,while Douglas plumped for rump, and a 10oz steak with smoked mash potato and peppercorn sauce. He ordered a bottle of light and fruity Pinot Noir and I had an apple and mango J2O.
The conversation was lively. We chatted about the Government’s plans to raise the pension age. He was interested in DBLW’s new electronic cash register. He gave me the inside track on Paisley and Renfrewshire South. I explained why I’m boycotting Hair Today Hair Tomorrow. He laughed when I told him about Flo’s mishap on our recent minibus safari through the Haldon Forest. He had me in stitches with his tales of high jinx in The Department of Transport.
If I’d have been 10 years younger, and Douglas hadn’t been happily married, I would almost certainly have played footsie with the dashing Member but… alas, it was not to be. He took flight at the sound of my Goblin teasmade and I woke up alone. My dream date was just that.
I shall be having an extra large mug of Horlicks tonight in the hope that I can tempt Douglas back to our table, and we can share the sticky toffee pudding with butterscotch sauce that we both drooled over.
Last night, in Appleton Marsh, a horror story unfolded.
For the second time this year I found myself entertaining Audrey, Margaret and Flo. As you know, every three months or so, we take it in turns to cook a meal and play host for an evening of reminiscing, laughing and finding fault with the food.
I did the honours in April with a triumphant Cock a Leekie soup du jour, beef casserole and ice cream drizzled with Baileys and topped with cubes of fudge. Audrey was a trooper in July. Clearly still not over her Three Cheeses Crispy Pancake ordeal, she served up a dubious main course of lamb and pasta but finished strongly with a memorable lemon sorbet to cleanse the pallet (which was much needed). Last night it was Margaret’s turn, and you can guess what’s coming.
Margaret phoned me at the shop yesterday afternoon.
“Doris, thank goodness I’ve caught you,” she said.
“What is it Margaret?” I asked. She was out of breath.
“Oh Doris. Disaster. My George Foreman grill has stopped working. I noticed a while back that the fat wasn’t running away like it used to do.”
She rambled on but I wasn’t really listening. I knew what was coming next and I was already going over the contents of my fridge in my mind.
“Doris. I know it’s a lot to ask…”
I wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
“Is there any chance at all…?”
I knew I had some eggs, some flour and some slightly out of date sausages.
“That we could perhaps, maybe…?
“I’d made a jelly for myself only the night before. The portions would be small but that’s only like the very best restaurants.”
“Eat around at yours?”
“Margaret. I’ve got nothing in,” I said, playing hardball.
“Anything will do, Doris. It’s not about the food, it’s the company; you know that.”
By now a customer had entered the shop and was browsing the tabards. Flo was busy with another customer. It was mayhem in there.
“Okay, okay. Will you let Audrey know and I’ll tell Flo.”
“Audrey already knows,” she said, brightly. And then, realising how presumptuous that sounded, added: “She was having a new bridge fitted in Exeter; I had to catch her before she left the house.”
So that was how my friends all ended up around at Rossetti Avenue last night. And the night started off brightly enough. After Margaret’s George Foreman misfortune, there was a spirit of the blitz feel about proceedings. My friends positively gushed over everything I placed before them. They appreciated the ingenuity that went into the flakes of corn with thousand island dressing starter. When the nights are closing in, toad in the hole, is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser and so it proved. Even the raspberry jelly drew favourable comments.
It all began to go wrong when we retired from the dining room, back into my sitting room. There, on my coffee table, was a ring stain!!
“Oh no,” I moaned. “Who did that?”
“They all looked at each other.”
“Well come on,” I said. “One of you must have done it.”
“It would have been an accident, Doris,” said Audrey.
“Was it you?” I demanded of her.
“No! It wasn’t me,” she protested.
“It could have been anyone,” suggested Margaret.
“Well Audrey says it wasn’t her,” I batted back.
Margaret and Flo looked at Audrey a bit miffed.
“Well it wasn’t me,” said Margaret, stepping back from Flo, who now looked a little isolated in the middle of the room.
Flo looked at her friends, betrayed.
“And it wasn’t me,” she declared, joining the rest of us at the edge of the room.
It was a Mexican standoff.
“Look, whoever did it,” said Audrey, her apparent guilt-free intonation judged to perfection, “Isn’t important right now. Doris you need to get some baking soda and a wet cloth, quick.”
“No,” piped up Margaret. “a wedge of lemon and a cup of boiling water. Be quick!”
“A tablespoon of vinegar, and we need grease,” ordered Flo.
“Grease?” I looked at her askance.
“Elbow grease,” she smiled.
The others laughed but I wasn’t in any mood, and I wasn’t done with the questioning either. This was a crime scene and I was the victim. This was CSI Appleton Marsh.
My dear friend’s Blab’s sister, Anne, and her friend Lisa, and I, had the briefest of Facebook exchanges just the other night regarding the relative merits of male escorts.
It all started when I admitted to Anne that I hankered after the actor Nigel Havers. His recent run in the soap opera Coronation Street, as the suave male prostitute Lewis Archer, worked me up into something of a lustful lather, I can tell you.
The velvet-voiced Charmer worked his way into the affections of no fewer than four of the Street’s senior citizens: Rita Sullivan née Fairclough née Littlewood, Claudia Colby, Audrey Roberts née Potter, and Deirdre Barlow nee Hunt, nee Langton, nee Rachid (played by real life lady of this realm Anne Kirkbride).
I can understand it. At my age the prospect of a no-ties relationship with a Nigel Havers look-a-like is a very appealing one; appealing enough for me to type “male escort Exeter” into Google.
But what a disappointment!
We’re definitely talking Escorts and not Audi Coupés.
West Country escorts look at though they don’t know how to handle a woman but they’d probably be very good with heavy machinery. Lewis Archer’s nails were beautifully manicured but I spotted traces of Swarfega under the nails of Colin from Cullompton.
By the time I’ve filtered out the also-rans and no-hopers there aren’t many left to choose from. The under-thirties are ruled out; we’ll have very little in common. Bald men; I worry it’s as a result of their heads rubbing against the headboard. Men with small hands and feet. Men with no fashion sense. And so on.
Don looked passable. He was wearing a fawn windjammer and a Pringle V neck. He is the Ghia of escorts. He works out of Dawlish and, by all accounts, is a compassionate listener with great stamina.
By contrast, Kenneth is an Escort Mark 1. His photograph captures him with a startled expression, at odds with the suggestive tugging of the belt of his Farah slacks. Ken, as he likes to be known, looks slightly jaundiced and would draw concerned looks on a dinner date I’m sure.
Being frank with you, I still have ‘urges’ but, at 78, the fact of the matter is I am quite frail and, like a bridge, there are weight limits. Anyone heftier than Nigel Havers could cause serious structural damage and the last thing I need right now is a shattered pelvis.
One thing is for sure though, at the prices this lot are charging I wouldn’t want sweet nothings whispering into my ear. If the meter is running, I would demand sweet somethings, and they may have to shout up a bit.
I am pleased to report that sales at DBLW are very buoyant and prove, yet again, that my fashion instincts are as sharp as ever. There are no poor performers in the summer range but three items in particular have been selling like hot cakes.
Popularity of this viscose, long sleeved belted dress with tie neck from Slav Style (in baby blue or soot grey) has more than justified the faith I placed in the Serbian fashion house. That DBLW has exclusivity rights for south Devon (excluding Exeter) is an additional source of satisfaction.
These linen pants have been flying out of the door, as I knew they would. Every so often an item of clothing comes along that is just very flattering. These are such an item. It doesn’t matter who pulls them on, the result is always the same – style and elegance. They are also Scotchguarded so if you spill anything down them, or your bombay mix gets trapped in a crease, staining will not result.
Nudging its way into the DBLW top three is this rather striking bikini, modeled here by Audrey’s daughter Clare. Based on the Syrian flag, this design from Slough-based company Slough World Flag Bikinis has really caught the imagination of my customers. DBLW also carries a limited stock of underwired big cup swimsuits with a ruched neckline, adjustable shoulder straps and a zebra print at the sides; but it’s the German flag bikini that wins the fashion plaudits.
I can’t afford to rest on my laurels though. All too soon these same items will be turning up in the Sue Ryder shop next door. The word fashion is derived from the Latin word factionem which means a group of people working together and that’s exactly what Flo and I do. By the time Sue Ryder is selling Syrian flag bikinis DBLW will be ablaze with autumnal colour and we’ll be putting the finishing touches to our spring range. That’s the way the factionem industry works.
Flo and I were up with the larks this morning. Kirsty, not an early riser by nature, had kindly offered to take us to Newton Abbot Livestock Market where a car boot sale was taking place; the largest in the South Hams.
Approaching it like a military exercise, we calculated the vernal equinox would catch out some but we welcomed the extra impetus, having adjusted our clocks to British Summer Time the moment Casualty finished.
It took about 40 minutes to travel the distance from Appleton Marsh to Newton Abbot. Although, a flying crow would have traveled due south across Dartmoor, we took a more circuitous route, following the A30 to Exeter where we picked up my favourite dual carriageway, the A380. We arrived at Newton Abbot just before 7.30am. The gates didn’t open to the sleep-deprived public until 9.00am but we were treated to a master class in charm by Flo who flirted and sweet-talked her way past a steward and we were soon mingling with the car-booters as they set up ‘stall’.
To cut a long story with a happy ending short, we both found what we were looking for. Flo was hunting for a new moisture absorbing shaker for her trusty biscuit barrel. In the end she bought a second-hand biscuit barrel with a fleur de lys motif which was a very reasonable 50p (I should say haggled tenaciously down by Flo from a less reasonable 75p). The plan is to switch its shaker into her biscuit barrel and I shall use the leftover barrel as a storage container for unopened packets of bombay mix.
The reason I needed to go to the car boot sale was to hunt for a new hairbrush. Not just any old hairbrush though; one with a mother of pearl back to match a dressing table set I already own (what happened to my original one is another long story for another day). Well I couldn’t believe my luck when I found an almost perfect match. I spotted it, tangled up in a fuzz of grey hair (no doubt belonging to its previous proud, and presumably now dead, owner) amongst some old jigsaws and paperweights. Without appearing too eager, I asked its owner how much she wanted for it. She looked me up and down and then made a sort of this-is-a-family-heirloom kind of expression before delivering the hammer-blow. It would be £10. I offered £1, hopeful of meeting somewhere in the middle, but she had time on her side, with a thousand punters no more than an hour away. Then, out of the blue, she said: “Give me a tenner and I’ll throw in the Pifco foot massager.” I’d already spotted the foot massager and agreed so readily that she looked quite unsettled.
We were so happy on the journey home, the three of us giggling like schoolgirls all the way back to Appleton Marsh. I do love it when a plan comes together.
Doris Brazil Speaks Out 
Friendly banter